Ah, so that's what it's for.

Well folks, I finally figured out what's different about the "new, improved blogger," other than the fact that I now need to have a longer sign-in name. It allows you to customize the look of your blog to a much greater degree without mucking around in HTML, which I don't know how to do anyways. Sweet. So yeah, here it is. Let me know what you think of the new look if you get the chance and are still reading this rubbish, I'd love a little feedback. More posting soon, have a good Tuesday!

S'il Vous Plaît...

Greetings, reader! Just letting you know that if you read this blog (it has been suggested that I refer to it simply as a "blah," but I shall disregard said suggestion for the time being), and if I am aware that you read this blog (which is to say that you comment on my posts), there is a very good chance that I also read your blog. I like reading your blog, so much so that I am disappointed (sometimes to the point of tears) when I check your site only to find that it has not been updated since the last time I checked it. Recently, however, I've been using Google Reader (which can be found at google.com/reader), one of a number of handy tools available gratis from the bounty of the the inter-nets, which allows me to check any number of blogs for new updates simultaneously. Yes, I know that something like this has been available for quite some time, I'm afraid I'm something of a late adopter of new technologies. However, there are a few blogs which I enjoy which do not allow me to subscribe to their feed (I only vaguely know what that even means), perhaps unbeknownst to their creators. And so, dear reader, my request to you is simple: please allow access to your site feed, so that I may more readily read your written ramblings. I don't know much about this stuff, but I know that in blogger you can do so by selecting your blog's "Settings" tab, then click on "Site Feed," click "Switch to Advanced Mode," and then change all the drawbars to read "Full." You can even write a little footer that will show up in my reader at the bottom of each post, if you so desire.

Also, I'm thinking of updating my links (on the right side of the page) as well as my Google Reader account, so if you have a blog and aren't sure if I read it, either drop me a link in the comments, or more privately by email (dcous at hotmail dot com), and let me know if you'd like me to link to you or not link to you or whatever (I don't think that this blog attracts an unsavory element, if that's your concern, it barely attracts anyone at all). Thanks for blogging, it's good to hear from you in one way or another. If you're reading this and don't know me personally, that's kind of weird. Still, feel free to post a link to your blog, you weirdo you.

Oh yes, one more thing: I'm going to be spending the weekend pretending to be a monk in Kentucky, so if anyone needs to get ahold of me, you're probably out of luck. When I get back I'll probably regale you with tales of my harrowing three-day encounter with prayer and (oh the humanity) celibacy.

"SQUEEZE every last drop out of those insolent, musical peasants."

Bonjour, mes amis! Il y a trop longtemps, non? Bon.
As I was saying, it's been too long. Not to worry though, you haven't missed a thing, because nothing has happened. I need to finally knuckle down and do my taxes, which may be a bit more of a pain than in years past, since I'm no longer a student. I just hope I don't actually owe anything. Reens has graciously agreed to give me a hand with it this evening, which is good, since I've never actually done my own taxes. I don't expect that it'll be that hard, but I've been sort of dreading it because it's harder to read anything issued by the Internal Revenue Service (a pretty euphemistic name for the Department for the External Collection of Internal Funds, if you ask me) than it is to slog through Beowulf in its original Anglo-Saxon (believe me, I've actually tried). Perhaps its because to the layman such as myself, it all seems arbitrarily too complicated. Of course, it's not actually arbitrary, the complexity comes from there being a tax on virtually anything imagineable, and a carefully written (if still practically unintelligible) series of loopholes for each tax. Yay, lobbyists. Here's an actual selection from the instructions to Form W-9, which I had to deal with at work:

Payments that may be subject to backup withholding include interest, dividends, broker and barter exchange transactions, rents, royalties, nonemployee pay, and certain payments from fishing boat operators [emphasis mine].

What's with the specific mention of fishing boat operators? I have no idea. I'm guessing that the only people who actually know the answer to that question are a handful of salty old sea dogs, their attorneys (yes, even salty old sea dogs have lawyers these days), a Bhuddist monk who stumbled accross the meaning of U.S. tax law while in a years-long meditative trance, and the anonymous nihilist poet who actually writes all of this garbage, whose impressive oeuvre includes thousands of pages of nonsense which were either accidentally or maliciously incorporated into tax legislation. A few pages later on the form, you find this:

Other payments [sic]. You must give your correct TIN, but you do not have to sign the certification unless you have been notified that you have previously given an incorrect TIN. “Other payments” include payments made in the course of the requester’s trade or business for rents, royalties, goods (other than bills for merchandise), medical and health care services (including payments to corporations), payments to a nonemployee for services, payments to certain fishing boat crew members and fishermen, and gross proceeds paid to attorneys (including payments to corporations) [emphasis mine].

What? Why are payments involving fishing boats different than other payments to "nonemployees"? IS there even a "why"? Keep in mind that the above excerpts were from the four pages of unintelligible instructions on how to fill out a one-page form, which contained only spaces for your Name, Tax Identification Number (TIN), and "Signature of U.S. Person, including citizens of the U.S. and those with Resident Alien status." There was an entire page of possible but not definite situations where you might not have to provide a signature at the bottom of the form, in the event that you are even required to fill it out at all. Anyways, if you need me I'll be meditating on the fact that because the earth is round, there is actually sky beneath my feet. After meditating on that for a while, I'll use the positive energy from the life-force of the birds which are without doubt flying through the sky beneath me to levitate, while at the same time visualizing in my mind each individual drop of ink on each page of my tax forms, and in that transient state the ink and I shall be as one mind, and shall have at one time all knowledge of one another. The ink shall understand my purpose for being, and I shall understand the ink's purpose for being, and when I awake from that trance I shall know how to prepare my taxes, thus validating the ink's existence. And then, Nirvana.

Mad as a March Hare

It should come as no surprise to you (and therefore it probably won't) that I'm generally and in most cases quite specifically opposed to capital punishment, which I believe is defined as the execution of criminals (or perhaps in some few cases the wrongly accused) by dropping the top portion of a greco-roman style column onto their heads. I have no idea if this particular method was ever common (or even for that matter employed so frequently as to be called "rare"), but I'm against it, and other less dramatic forms of execution as well. But as we (the royal "we") have said, you are doubtless already aware of this, and the purpose of this post is actually to inform you (because I am sure that you desire nothing more than to know) of one particular offence for which I am in fact in favor of capital punishment, even as above defined, and that is the use of the grocery isle marked "12 items or fewer" to purchase any number of items greater than 12.

And you thought I was going to talk about something serious. Silly you.

Anyways, having moved on from the thought of a large stone falling on the head of a woman who for all I know might honestly be unable (poor soul) to count the groceries in her cart, and also having used a paragraph break (which is not my custom), I shall move on. I've had a strange feeling of impending doom over the last day or two, and the reason for it (if indeed there is one) completely escapes me. I rather doubt that it has anything to do with the approaching Ides (I'm not very superstitious, or even well-read), but I suppose that it's not impossible. It's just not probable, that's all. Well, I've rambled enough for now. I apologize for the recent lapse in posts, as well as for the seemingly endless lack of substance in what few posts there are. I'll figure out something interesting to say at some point, I suppose I owe you one for reading this rubbish at all. It's supposed to rain today, so keep your parapluie close at hand.

A Late Submission

Lindsey is clearly showing off with this little chocolatey gem (yuk yuk), complete with a wicked lens flare. Awesome. Too late to win a prize, but it may very well be what I need to get the money rolling in.

Can someone explain this to me?

So the fallout from various NASCAR teams' alleged cheating has been in the news, and not being a follower of the so-called "sport," I'm asking someone out there who knows more about this than I to please answer me these two questions:

1.) Is it "cheating" to try to customize one's car to go faster?

2.) If yes, why does anyone watch this?

I'm sorry, I'll openly admit to my almost complete ignorance on the subject, but this seems ridiculous to me.

I have no clue why I'm blogging about this, so I'll stop now. Have a good weekend, everyone!

Feminine Mind Control Day

Well, I won't lie to you. The First-Ever Random Internet Competition thingy wasn't a great success, as there were only two submittals, which you'll find below. I must admit that some of you (perhaps even most of you) have weakened my faith in humanity in a not-insignificant way, but perhaps I should thank you for reminding me of why I decided to take over the world in the first place. Keep in mind that I never really thought that I'd get as many as five submissions (which Jonathan was unfortunately able to deduce), so for me the optimum number would've been four: the maximum amount before I would have to award some kind of prize. So, perhaps it's for the best. In any case, the winner is David, who not only submitted well before the deadline and in the required file format, but also in color. David loses some minor style points on making his prototype a boot rather than a shoe, and I'm not too fond of the square-cut diamonds myself, but these may turn out to be the best choices in the end. He was also quick to mention to me that for added effect, his boot would be made out of dark chocolate rather than milk chocolate, for maximum effect. I can't argue with this. David also submitted a very avant-garde piece of graphic design to accompany his official submittal. Being untrained in the graphic arts myself I was scarcely able to make out what it was, and I know just enough about art to know that if you don't understand it, it must be brilliant. Fortunately, David refrained from art elitism and was good enough to explain to me in his email that what I was looking at was a necklace that held both a golden shoe (with diamonds on it, of course), and a piece of a four-layer chocolate cake. While I don't personally believe that this device would be anywhere near as effective as plan 50WD, I think it would be foolish to discard the idea entirely, and so you see it here. Brilliant. Honorable Mention goes to the only other submission, which was a far more conventional piece of artwork, although not entirely without merit. The scene presented here shows a mad scientist (presumably in my employ) with the requisite german accent unveiling a set of chocolate, diamond-covered hooker boots the size of large buildings. I can't help but wonder if I wasn't unclear in my instructions about shoes rather than boots, but a submission's a submission in this business, so I'll have to take what I can get. Eric (the artist) loses some points for breaking the spirit (if not the letter) of the contest rules, and submitting to me what was, for all intents and purposes, a hard copy. Were it not for the shortage of submissions, I would have disqualified him altogether, but as is he walks away with a generous second place. That wraps up our Feminine Mind Control Day special festivities, best of luck to all you men out there trying to buy your way out of the doghouse with flowers and chocolate and what-not. It probably won't work, and she probably still won't tell you why she's upset with you, but it's worth a try, man. To the single out there who can't help but be bitter on this cold, February day, I can offer this simple piece of consolation: It's a pretty dumb holiday anyways, and this way you're probably getting out of it on the cheap. You have to blow a wad on a nice dinner and a few dozen flowers today? No? Didn't think so. I didn't either, if you're wondering, my wonderful girlfriend has yet to discover the awesome power of guilt, or is just too cool to use it. Either way, I'm not complaining. Peace and love to all of you, and be careful out there in the snow.

Time is running out...

Ok seriously, today is the last day to submit art for The Republic's First-Ever Random Internet Competition (for details, see my eariler post below), before David wins by virtue of being the only contestant (not that his fine submission wouldn't stand a good chance of winning were there more contestants, but still). Come on, people! I'm talking about a bag of coffee from Beaner's (or suitable substitute for the coffee disinclined) and supreme dictatorship of Canada! I'm going to say that you should submit by midnight tonight in order to be eligible, but really if you send it in before I sign in to blogger during lunch tommorow to post the results, you'll be fine. Send all submissions to dcous at hotmail dot com, with "50WD" in the subject line (as I said before), and remember that nobody can really, like, define art, man. Life is art. Art is life. Balogna (Baloney). I'm just saying that you don't have to fancy yourself an artist (or artiste) in order to submit, you just have to know how to either draw pictures on a computer, or to draw them by hand and use a scanner.

Pardon me a rant

Ok, so I've decided to take the plunge (relax-it's not a very big plunge) and buy health insurance. Since going off of my parents' health insurance I've reasoned that I've never been seriously ill, and if the majority of the insured stood to collect on their health plans, very few people could afford them. Anyways, I listen to NPR a fair amount, although not as much now that my morning commute is approximately 60 seconds from doorstep to office, and if I had to pick their cross-program theme for the year thus far, it would be this: Did you know that some people in this country can't afford health insurance? Of course, this is something they've been telling me for years, but it seems to me that the frequency of on-air reminders has skyrocketed in the past month or so, largely due to an increase in the discussion of such things on Capitol Hill. Yes, as we've all been made aware, all persons are endowed by our creator with the inalienable right to Life, Liberty, and Health Care. You get the picture. Anyways, I was thinking of all this the other day while looking at the stub of my recent paycheck and the price list for insurance which I could get through my employer. The pertinent part of the price list read something like this:

Single employee, health & dental coverage: X dollars

Next, my attention was drawn to the pay stub, the pertinent (for this post) section of which read:

F.I.C.A. : 2.64 times X dollars

Funny. So, you're saying that I, far from the top of the income distribution, could far more easily
afford health insurance (plus a nice steak dinner about once a week) IF I WASN'T ALREADY PAYING FOR SOMEONE ELSE'S HEALTH INSURANCE! Thanks for nothing, Uncle Sam. Burn in hell.

I assume that you already know, but F.I.C.A. stands for "Federal Insurance Contribution Act," which represents one of the most twistedly appropriate uses of the word "contribution" I can think of, in that the law compels you to contribute to something that you have little or no chance of benefiting from, at least if you're my age. Then again, if someone mugs you on the street in order to pay for others' health insurance and retirement plans, I'd guess that you wouldn't call this a "contribution" save perhaps in jest. Speaking of jest, I ran accross this little tidbit in the FAQ section of socialsecurity.gov, under the heading "Why can't I invest my Social Security taxes into an IRA plan?" Good question. The site's authors, probably shaking uncontrollably from laughter, explain that (and I quote) "maybe your investments wouldn't work out." Oh really? My investments might not work out. This is true, they very well might not, but ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME? I have a better chance of being hit by a meteorite than on getting one red cent back from so-called Social Security when I reach my golden years, as the system now stands. I have a higher probability of a positive return on my investment if every month until I retire I buy a jar to save my own phlegm in, banking on the value of either jars or phlegm or both going up over the next fifty years.

Phew, ok. I'm done. I'm sorry.

In other news, I had a splendid weekend out in GR visiting the GF and contending with the weather, although at one point I got stranded far from base and had to cut open my tauntaun and climb inside its foul-smelling innards to warm myself. Yes, the blizzard conditions were so bad that Storm Team 13 (or whatever it's called) had to send out one of their junior meteorologists into the cold just to show us all on the teevee (as Lindsey says it) just how bad it is. "Yes Rich, as you can see I'm up to my waist in snow and my face is a ghostly shade of blue. Dear Lord, it's so cold. I sure would like to have your cushy job in the nice warm TV studio pointing at doplar weather maps, instead of standing outside in the freezing cold, waist-deep in snow, going through a very long list of school closings and other information that could easily have been communicated from the warmth of a nearby building, or at least from the back of the Storm Team van. I hate you so much. Back to you, Rich." "Thanks, Nancy. I hope you freeze and die out there. We'll keep you abreast of further developments as they occur, folks."

Anyways, the weekend was an adventure even for those of us who aren't junior meteorologists, and Lindsey was a wonderful hostess as always, as were her friends (and my brother GEC), whose couch I crashed on. The weekend also forced me to realize that I really have been putting off the purchase of new tires for too long, so I'll have to make it down to Discount Tire in the next day or so. That's all the randomness for now, more to come when the time presents itself.

Oh yes, and one more thing: I wasn't kidding in my previous post about the random internet competition. I can't encourage you enough to participate, regardless of what you think of your own artistic abilities. I'm pretty sure I never mentioned strict critera for the judging, and you get a pretty good piece of real estate when I rule the world in exchange for a few minutes of doodling. What could be better?

The Republic's First-Ever Random Internet Competition!

Ok friends, this is it: As I'm sure both of you have noticed, I am not currently in control of the world, or even half of it. I'm sure that this causes you at least as much dismay as it causes me, perhaps even so much that you don't remember my earlier mention of a plan to rectify this situation. The trouble is that notwithstanding the perfection of the plan, things just haven't been working so well in the fundraising department, and I had to have a few fundraising minions thrown into my shark tank just to keep everyone else in the department motivated (yes, people said that springing for the shark tank was a mistake, but with the labor disputes one encounters in this business, those things practically pay for themselves overnight). Anyhoo, it occured to me the other day while I was sitting in my lair petting my cat Bonaparte and chuckling to myself that I might be able to get a few more investors on board with some really schnazzy concept art of Plan 50WD's Primary Mind Control Unit (PMCU), or in layman's terms: "A Pair Diamond-Covered Chocolate Shoes." If a diamond-encrusted shoe made out of chocolate can control minds, I reasoned (and it almost certainly can), certainly a picture of a diamond-encrusted chocolate shoe will have at least some persuasive effect on the rich and unscrupulous, which is where you come in: If you know how to use Photoshop, MS Paint, A Pencil, Paper, and a Scanner, crayons-whatever, I want you to put those skills to work on drawing up some concept art for Plan 50WD. You're allowed to submit up to 2 concepts per person, and if I get at least 5 participants, I'll throw in a prize for the winner (something along the lines of a bag of coffee from Beaner's when the contest ends, and dictatorship of Canada when I rule the world). I'll need any and all submissions to be in .jpeg or perhaps some similar file format, and emailed to dcous at hotmail dot com no later than February 13, 2007, with "50WD" in the subject line. Hand-drawn submissions will be accepted, but must be scanned and emailed. If you try to give me a hard copy, I'll probably lose it. All submissions, and an announcement of the winner will be posted the following day, Feminine Mind Control Day, otherwise known as Singleness Awareness Day, and in some antiquated incarnations of the vernacular, Valentine's Day. Submissions deemed inappropriate will not be posted, and will be immediately disqualified. If I don't know you personally (in which case I have no clue why you're reading this thing), I'll need you to include your mailing address in the email. If you send me a virus, I will find your family and throw them into my shark tank, force you to watch them as they are devoured, and then I'll think of some really painful way to dispose of you, possibly involving unpasteurized dairy products. Now then, stop reading and start cracking on that artwork, Feminine Mind Control Day is right around the corner!

Best Bought Elsewhere

I'll probably get over it at some point, but at the moment I hate Best Buy. You know, the electronics warehouse that cleverly arranges its merchandise so that the only thing you can find without assistance is a television the size of Rhode Island. I was spotted as soon as I went in by the door guy (no, he doesn't open the door or call you a cab, he just stands by the door and makes sure you don't steal anything), who took a second to assess my age and dress before addressing me in the appropriate dialect:
"Hey dude, welcome to Best Buy."
"Thanks man." I replied, wondering if he'd have called my father "dude".
Without any help, and from accross the store, I found the aforementioned television, and wondered for a second how much money I would have to make before I started thinking that such a thing would be a reasonable purchase. Probably at the point where the money isn't even the question on my mind as much as "how am I going to fit that into the Cous-jet, and how would it go with the furniture (Cous-furniture? Cousiture? Cousiniture?) in the Cous-cave?" That line of thought didn't take me anywhere but to a series of bad Batman jokes (Bat-jokes?), so I instead set out in search of the RCA cable for which I had come. I knew it wasn't going to be easy: The place was a labrynth of expensive toys and blue-shirted, khaki-pantsed salesclerks trying to sell them, and it was getting late. They're always hungrier when it gets close to closing time. I headed in the direction I thought most logical, but in the process I had to walk past a video game console. A salesclerk sprang into action! A cold, digital voice chirped at him from the computer implant in his brain:
"Intruder! 22-year-old male in vicinity of Playstation 3, check him for money!"
"Anything I can help you find, bro?" he asked, in a deceptively cheerful voice, beneath the surface of which could be heard the cries of a lifetime of digital torment.
"No thanks, dude." I said, ducking into the nearest aisle and searching frantically for my query. I knew I didn't have much time. The second attack would be swifter and perhaps more powerful than the first. Blast! No RCA cables to be seen in this part of the store, and I was out of time. My eyes darted from side to side, looking for an unsuspecting salesclerk. If I could find one alone in a secluded part of the store, I thought, I could physically overpower them (stop laughing, it could happen) and take their salesclerk uniform, thus allowing me to move about the store with impunity. "Can I help you find something, dude?" Too late! I'd been spotted.
It should be noted that the last time I was in this same store, I actually surrendered to the salesclerks, and let them help me find something. It turns out that the only thing they know how to find is also the television the size of Rhode Island, which they still can't exactly locate, but can get you in the right department before turning you over to Omega 721, the television guy.
I dispatched the second salesclerk as I had the first, but a third followed on his heels, and then a fourth, each as determined as the one before it. I was becoming weary. Too weary, perhaps, to employ my earlier plan to infiltrate their numbers. I needed to find the cable and escape before it was too late. Success! I found it hidden behind the battery kiosk. Another salesclerk was approaching! I ducked behind the kiosk until he passed, then followed closely behind him as he headed for the front of the store, hoping against hope itself that he would not turn to see me there, so close to escaping. The checkout line! I slipped in before anyone else could spot me. I had only to deal with the checkout clerk, then the "dude" at the door, and then sweet, sweet freedom. Arming myself with my trusty debit card, I took a cursory glance at what the guy in front of me was buying. It was an Xbox 360. "The fool," I thought. They got him. His total flashed up on the little green screen: $426.00. I clutched my RCA cable and gritted my teeth as it came to be my turn, and the clerk offered to sign me up for Best Buy line of credit. "Not on your life" I muttered to myself, but was able to make it come out as a friendly "No thanks." I got my receipt and headed for the doors. As they opened in front of me I could feel the cold wind on my face. I nearly wept.
"We'll get you next ti... er, Have a good evening dude." Said the door guy, putting his hand up to his right ear to check his invisible headset.
"Thanks, you too."
A light snow fell as I stepped out to my car, walking past a man with two salesclerks loading a big-screen tv into his Toyota. I smiled.

A Few Poorly-Organized Thoughts At The Start Of A New Year

A few days before Christmas, as I was dropping a few things off at the post office, I held the door open for a woman wheeling in a hand truck full of packages. “Thanks,” she said. “You have a lot of friends” I noted, referring to her load. “Troops” She said, “They’re for the troops. One of them is my son.” I honestly don’t remember what I said to her after that, but I’m sure it was stupid, and in any case it concluded our conversation. We both took our places in line, before the post office clerk said to her “Ma’am, just step right up. You don’t have to wait in line with the second trip.” By that point, the few outgoing packages and bills for work I was there to send seemed to be the most trivial things in the world, which, to be fair, they probably were. That brief exchange has returned to my mind several times as Christmas slipped by and the New Year has already begun to pass by. Perhaps what struck me about it was merely the reminder that our country is at war, and has been in some way or other for more than five years. Perhaps it’s a testament to modern warfare (or perhaps merely to the nature of the conflicts themselves) that the human cost to the U.S. has been sufficiently low that the war hasn’t hit home for (I suspect) the majority of us. Regardless of what you think of the war (and most of us hold at least one strong opinion about it), I have to admit for myself that I don’t think of it often. It’s become that thing which I change the radio station to avoid hearing about, and casually pass over the newspaper headlines that refer to it. Perhaps it isn’t as bad as all that: there’s very little if anything which I can personally do one way or the other about the war, and all that the press dishes out is politicized sound bites and dehumanizing if not misleading statistics. Still, I can’t help but wonder if we’re not all too numb in some way or other about being engaged in something as terrible as war is. I’m not trying to get political here, or make some broad statement regarding what I think everyone else ought to do (a handy working definition of the word politics). I guess I’m just saying that it was helpful to me in some way to be reminded of the soldiers who were not able to come home for Christmas, and those (hopefully few) who never will, and to pray for them and their families. I suppose that’s all I can do. Celebrations of the Incarnation were many and joyful this year (and actually have yet to conclude), and I’m always amazed at the blessing my family and friends are to me, and at the joy I receive through them. Gifts were given and generally well-received, and I believe that I may have survived another Christmas without my lack of gift-giving prowess costing me any relationships, although it may be too early to tell. It seems that every Christmas I suddenly realize that I’ve let Advent pass without taking advantage of this time that the Church gives us to meditate on the coming of Christ and to make way for His coming in our hearts, and I’d be lying if I said this year was much of an exception. It seems that I never cease to disappoint myself, and yet Christ never ceases to be merciful, and for that I can only be thankful. That said, I found myself presented with at least some time just before Christmas where I was compelled by some combination of circumstances to do just what I’d been putting off doing, and felt particularly drawn to the canticles of Zechariah and of Our Lady, rejoicing in God’s faithfulness to His covenant and His people, and in the way in which God makes himself known. I’m as pleased with sweets and Christmas trees and egg nog and hectic reunions with family and out-of-town friends as anyone else, and perhaps more so, but I’m afraid that too often I content myself with the “warm fuzzies” of the Christmas season. Of course we all know that Christmas isn’t really about these things, but I have to admit that a large portion of my enjoyment of the season is wrapped up in them. In any case, there was no light bulb going off over my head, where I suddenly opened the windows to my house and ordered some boy on the street to go buy a huge bird for the Cratchet family, but I was reminded of what Mary and Zechariah were so joyous about, that humanity and the earth were forever changed and glorified by the Incarnation of God as a Man. Christmas isn’t just “not about” desserts and family and presents, its custom-made for the downtrodden, friendless, miserable wretches of the earth, which to some extent we all are. In any case I’m rambling, and I imagine that you’ve better things to do than this, so I’ll bid you a happy New Year, and leave it at that. Thanks for a great year, and hopefully more to come.

Today's Best Headline

Ok, I know I promised to take it easy on the Links, but when one sees the headline "World's Tallest Man Saves Dolphins In China," one simply must share it with the world. Also, the Republic's unofficial photographer and pop culture connoisseur extraordinare linked me to the full-length (six minute) animated short "The Wolfman," directed by Tim Hope. I had only seen a shorter version released some years ago as a hilarious television commercial for the Sony Playstation 2. The longer version is far superior. Happy Thursday!

Nightmares of Yesteryear's Stale Gingerbread...

Hello, friends! I do hope that you've been well, I suppose that I have. I've been meaning to sit down and post a few thoughts on this blog of mine for a good week or two, and now that I sit down in Espresso Royale, cappuccino and laptop in hand, I find that I've really startlingly little to say. I guess that isn't so startling after all, though. Christmas is fast approaching, and although I'm reminded of it every time I use the internet, turn on the radio, or enter the grocery store, I guess I'm still in denial about it. I love Christmas, I actually do. In fact, I love nearly everything about Christmas. I like parties and friends and relatives who I don't see often enough. I even like Christmas music, in moderation. I guess now I'm just getting into my annual gift anxiety stage, where I have yet to complete any fraction of my Christmas shopping. My Christmas shopping ritual tends to be about the same every year, a mind-numbing experience of not knowing what I'm looking for when I leave to go to the store (or stores), and then (predictably) not finding it. The root of the problem might even be something truly depressing. Perhaps I don't know the ones I love well enough to be able to pick out good gifts for them. Anyways, since some of them might (by chance, or perhaps stemming from an overdeveloped sense of loyalty) read this post, and I don't want anyone to think that I'm trying to play the martyr card ("you have no idea how hard it was for me to pick out that gift you don't like"), I'm probably better off apologizing for being overly indecisive. I'm sorry.
Moving along, Reens and I set up the Christmas tree last night, that was fun. It turns out that my Type-A sister has a method for doing just about everything, including wrapping lights around the branches of the Christmas tree just right. Or else. She's funny. I also got to hear various fecetious repetitions of the phrase "It must be nice living with a man," which apparently has been said to her about us living together by various people, much to her amusement. I can't figure out what exactly people mean by saying it, to be honest. I mean, it's me. I'm not exactly Mr. Fix-It. I'm taller than Reens, but I think that's about all I've got on her. She's better at fixing stuff and owns her own tools. Nobody says "must be nice living with women" to me, expecting that they do my laundry and cook for me, although to be fair, my sister sometimes takes pity on me eating my crappy bachelor food and offers me something resembling nourishment. Ok, I've babbled enough for one post. I wish you all well, do take care.

It's the little things we do...

Wow, I suppose that all of the spam comments on my last post are the price I pay for neglecting this thing for so long. I should also say that it might be inappropriate to make fun of Diane Rehm's voice, since it is apparently due to a rather unpleasant condition, and as such I am sorry if I have offended anyone's sensibilities. I still say that the person on the phone sounded just like her, whatever her malady. I'll get back into regular posting soon enough, although I'm afraid that I haven't enough time presently for a full-blown update. I'm afraid that I may have to restrict the comments in some way, shape or form, but in the meantime, I just ask that any of you who post comments (for which I'm quite grateful, it feels good to know someone reads this thing, for whatever reason) refrain from doing so anonymously. I would also like to repeat my policy of not using anyone's full name on the blog (or anywhere else on the internet for that matter) without their consent. Also, while I encourage any and all of you to post links in the comments to whatever you think I'll find interesting, do not click any links that are posted anonymously, or by someone whose screen name you are unfamiliar with. Thanks for checking back, I'll have more posts up soon.

Random

I swear, I just got off the phone with Diane Rehm. You know, NPR's ultra-liberal talk show host, who sounds like a chain smoker who's just been punched in the throat. Ok, I shouldn't be too harsh on her, I believe that she has/had some sort of throat ailment, and for that she has my sympathies. Either way, the woman with whom I was just on the phone sounds exactly like her. She of course claimed to be someone else, and I played along, but I was tempted to interrupt her and say "Is this you, Diane? How'd you get this number? That's the Diane Rehm I know, always a joker." Darn me and my politeness. Now she probably thinks that I had no idea, and she'll be laughing her already strained vocal chords to the point of combustion (can they combust? I'm no doctor). I just hope she doesn't mention in on her show on Friday, then everyone will think I'm a gullible idiot. Maybe they already do.

It starts...

Yep, it's happening. I've probably only been lucky to have escaped it this long, but it's happening. I was walking through the grocery store tonight, and I thought I'd been a good shopper. I didn't even become irate and ask the stock clerk why the bath soap is halfway accross the store from the shampoo, and goodness knows I wanted to. Nothing against the guy, he's working the late shift at Meijer, so it's probably best that I didn't comment on this ridiculous situation for which he was obviously not responsible. I did think about it, though. Maybe the Meijer security people picked that up on their security cameras somehow. Whatever the reason, Meijer decided to subject me and my fellow shoppers (of which there was a surprising number, considering the late hour) to a little aural torture. I was already accross the store and in the correct isle to find the aforementioned soap when it hit. It started out as something sort of like techno, but then over the top of the slow electronic beat came a somewhat deep and gravelly female voice with a slight twang, which sounded roughly like what I imagine llamas sound like when they become constipated and are about to die the most painful bowel-related death imagineable: "Aaah'll have a bluuuuuuuuueeeeee Christmaaaaaaas without yooooooooooouuuu..." Ye gods. It's November. I won't be able to enter another store until perhaps New Years without being subjected to seven different Easy-Listening versions of Bobby Helms' awful "Jingle Bell Rock," perhaps followed by Kenny G laying down an instrumental version of "It's the Most Wonderful Time Of the Year," which will make you believe that you have died and gone to hell, and that the devil plays alto saxophone. It makes me wish I'd bought all the food I'll need for the next month and a half while I was there, curse my lack of foresight! Of course I'll have to buy Christmas gifts or something like that (I'm told that this is done this time of year, usually by advertisements telling me to "give the gift of _____ ," where you fill in the blanks with a product name such as "Cars," "Diamonds," or "Llama Skin Coat"). Maybe I can buy gifts online, I'm in the 21st Century, after all. Either that, or perhaps I'll get disowned by all of my family and friends by the time December 23rd (the day I usually get around to doing my shopping), that's never too remote a possibility. Ok, I'm babbling and I need sleep. In fact, I need to have slept. Whatever. I'm sorry I haven't posted in a while, and that this is all I could think of to say for now. I'll try to be better, if only because more time writing on my blog might mean less time spent in stores where they play Christma--er, Holiday carols. Stay warm out there, kids.

Monday

Today was one of the few times when I went home during lunch (it's a very short trip) to put in a load of laundry only to hear the clarion call of the beer in my fridge. Yep, one of those days. For the record, the beer's still in my fridge and I never seriously entertained the idea of consuming it, in case anyone out there thinks of me like that. Instead I consoled myself with thoughts of clean laundry, and in the car I mellowed to Eric Clapton's sweet sweet guitar playing and pining for another man's wife. Ah, the blues. I've been told that I have a few hang-ups, and I'll not argue with the assertion, but I'm still never comfortable with womens' undergarments in the laundry. I have a feeling that this isn't the sort of thing I should be admitting on the internet, but I'll draw some comfort from the fact that I never use my complete real name on this blog (that's right, you have no idea who I am). I also have a feeling somewhere in my gut that a phobia such as this isn't entirely normal, although I could be wrong, and all the same I don't feel that it's half as irrational as it is. Or isn't. Whatever. I don't have any real problem living with women (in some function or other, I've lived with women for most of my life), and the pros outweigh the cons to be sure. I like living with women. I even get free baked goods periodically (heh heh, periodically), and that can't be bad. Still, I can't seem to get past this one. Perhaps it means I'm doomed to eternal bachelorhood, but I rather hope it doesn't--I'm a terrible cook. Stop talking about this Cous, you're digging a hole for yourself that you shall never escape.
Only another 8 days until election day (should that be capitalized? I don't know), and it can't happen soon enough, as far as I'm concerned. It means that I'll stop receiving unsolicited mailings and phone calls and television ads informing me of why this is the most important election in our lifetime, and what those nasty nasty Republicrats and Democrans are doing to our country. My favorite ad so far has been a cartoon of Dick DeVos shipping a crate marked "JOBS" off to China. Silly Dick DeVos, jobs are for unions. The other catchy one is "DeVos is DeCeptive," found on the bumper of many a rusted Volvo around town. A catchy ad to be sure, but I'm not really impressed by the rhetoric. I mean, is Dick DeVos deomonstrably deceptive? I don't doubt the danger, but don't you think the mere accusation is a little... dubious? Ok, I'm reaching for that one. I'm not a D.D.V. fan boy or anthing like that (he's certainly done his share of negative campaigning), but I haven't heard any actual complaints about the man being a pathological liar or antying like that. It might as well say "DeVos stole my baby." Much as I'm sick of politics, there are actually some interesting referendums on the ballot, so be sure to read up on stuff before next Tuesday. Also, if any of the ads on television or in the mail have helped you make up your mind about the issues and candidates, do us all a favor and DON'T VOTE. Ooh, my old professor the constantly entertaining Gary "don't have to live like a refugee" Wolfram has a little editorial out on elections, you should check it out. Hat tip to Jonathan on that one, by the way. Other than that, have a good week and watch out for the mud that's getting slung left and right around here. Oh yeah, and don't drink the yellow milk. Heh heh heh, milk.

Udder Confusion

Hey kids! Sorry about the lack of posting for a while, I guess it's the price I pay for having nothing to say. For those of you who haven't read either my mother's post on the topic or the related Ann Arbor News story, or if you just want a slightly less biased (ha!) opinion on the matter, you've come to the right place. First off, I want to tell you to ignore those two links I gave you up there and listen only to the soothing sound of my typing hands, but I imagine that you've already read the news article and first-hand apology (I mean that in the Socratic sense, she's not sorry), so I'm just going to attempt to editorialize here.
Last Friday morning found my mum and sister-in-law waiting in a back alley in Ann Arbor with a largish crowd of folks with pony tails and Birkenstocks and maybe the occasional "man with no name"-style poncho, who had all driven (or perhaps carpooled to save on greenhouse emissions) there in old Volvos that are now held together only by bumper stickers which read "Free Tibet," "I break for Jake," and perhaps "I'd rather be in Ann Arbor." What, you may ask, could possibly have drawn these people away from their homeopathy boutiques and used record and book stores on this Friday morning? Milk. That's right, just like the stuff the rest of us buy at gas stations and grocery stores at our convenience. Well, almost just like it. What makes this milk so special? It's unpasteurized. Unpasteurized? Isn't pasteurization that process by which the bacteria in milk are killed? Yup, but let’s leave that for later. For now, let’s just content ourselves with the knowledge that two otherwise sane people whom I love very much were standing there on a Friday morning waiting to buy dirty milk out of the back of a truck. In an alley. On purpose. And then, suddenly, in the blink of an eye, nothing happened. Seriously. The sketchy milk truck didn’t show. Close to 100 hippies were stuck there in an alley, awaiting the arrival of a truck that simply would not arrive. Awkwardly, they stood around with their hands in their pockets, probably thinking to themselves that it’s getting a wee bit cold to wear Birkenstocks, and perhaps making awkward small talk to one another about how they never forgave their parents for not accepting their lifestyle.
What had become of the truck and its high-bacteria bounty? It had been stopped en route from the organic dairy farm by sheriff’s deputies serving a Michigan Department of Agriculture warrant to seize the sketchy milk and Farmer Rick’s cell phone. They also swiped his computer back at the farm house. Little did Farmer Rick realize that his weekly back-alley drop-offs had been to 99 honest crazies trying to get their bacteria fix, and one undercover agent from the Michigan Department of Agriculture. An undercover agent, baby! Every MDA worker dreams of this kind of assignment. “Son, I need someone to infiltrate an organic dairy co-op, and they tell me you’re the best. Here’s your ‘Jerry Lives’ t-shirt, and the keys to your 1979 Volvo. In the car you’ll find an 8-track tape with further instructions, along with some live bootlegs of Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young.” Hahahaha, those jokers at the MDA, what will they come up with next?
According to the news article (which, by the way, more than pushes the limits of impartial journalism), Farmer Rick has done nothing illegal, and has yet to be charged with anything. Apparently there’s a loophole in Michigan law which allows the co-op to buy the milk by leasing part-ownership of the herd, or something like that.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m actually against laws that keep people from buying unpasteurized milk when they do so with full knowledge of what they’re buying. We can still legally buy alcohol and tobacco, can’t we? Sorry, I’m just not looking to the State of Michigan to save me from myself. That said, I personally find the whole ordeal to be about the funniest thing I’ve heard all month. I’m sorry to those of you who’d already heard the whole story, I’ll try to post something else in a timely manner. Until then, I wish you well.

Sunshine on the bottom of my feet means I must be layin' down

Rumor is that they threw out the circus clowns and brought in a bearded lady act instead, though it probably won't make any difference, that is if you're not a circus clown. Not much to report for the week really, different day with the same porridge in your bowl, if you know what I mean. That's not actually bad, mind you, although sometimes it feels that way. Sometimes the days start to feel like the mirrors on your wall looking back at you with the persistent disdain, in spite of all the Sun King's best intentions and your hard-earned respect being wasted at the feet of the lonely. Not much you can do about it really, that's just how the world turns on Tuesdays, or whatever day it is in Singapore. I'll write more when I have more to write about, sorry.