Where the Hell Was I?

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I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
If you're a science and/or silliness fan, give it a gander! See you soon!

April 25, 2006

The Five Hundred Dollar Commute

Going to work yesterday cost me five hundred dollars.

I suppose that’s technically not true. To be fair, you’d have to add back the salary I made at work yesterday, minus the cuts for federal taxes, state taxes, Social Security, my retirement account, life insurance, health insurance, parking, and the annual office Cinco de Mayo fund. Plus the new slipcovers on the boss’ couch I’m still paying for, from last year’s Cinco de Mayo fiesta.

So in reality, going to work only cost me approximately four hundred and ninety-three dollars and twelve cents.

Yay, job. Whoop-de-doo.

Here’s what happened: I was driving along, minding my own business and rocking out to ~~Celine Dion~~ ~~The Wiggles~~ ~~Christopher Cross~~ the latest manly death metal sensation. I forget the name of the band — Devilspawn? Dripping Evil? Deathtongue? It’s not important, really.

The significant bit happened as I was ~~crooning~~ belting out a chorus and *WHAM*, the passenger side of the car lurched and wobbled ominously. There was nothing obviously there, except the curb I wasn’t near. No cars or motorbikes or filthy street urchins were to be seen.

“You see, here in the progressive Commonwealth of Masshole-achusetts, we have a mechanic check our wiper fluid and left tail lights every year, to make sure that the least complicated and most trivial bits of the vehicle are functioning properly.”

But something was there, and whatever it was blew the hell out of my right front tire. In seconds, the car was limping and *kathump*-ing along in rhythm to the music. As ‘percussion’, it was sort of intriguing. As ‘roadworthy vehicle’, it was quickly fading out of the picture. I needed a garage, and fast.

So I found one. But slow. Painfully slowly, in fact, which is how I rolled and shimmied to the nearest garage I knew. I’d seen them with a busted tire before — two at once, in fact. They’re good people. Honest and hardworking, as far as I can tell. They probably call their mothers every weekend, too.

Anyway, I finally made it to the garage. They offered to sell me a new tire, and I graciously accepted. They noted — quite politely, mind you — that my inspection sticker was a few weeks overdue.

You see, here in the progressive Commonwealth of Masshole-achusetts, we have a mechanic check our wiper fluid and left tail lights every year, to make sure that the least complicated and most trivial bits of the vehicle are functioning properly. This is called an ‘inspection’, and we pay thirty bucks a pop for the privilege of the service.

We then pay several hundred more dollars to fix, reattach, patch, clean, buff, wax, or replace bits of the car that the mechanics say are faulty. Even though those parts aren’t actually part of the inspection, and couldn’t realistically be observed by anyone who’s not ‘examining’ your car with X-ray specs and a high-powered chainsaw.

Basically, the ‘problems’ the ‘mechanics’ ‘find’ are all part of the process. We think of it as an extra tax, for having the audacity to own a car and gum up the environment in the first place. We’re in New England; we’re easily guilted like that.

So, long story marginally shorter, that’s exactly what happened. The missus had already scolded me for letting the inspection lapse anyway, so I let the mechanics open her up for a look.

(That’s the car, not my wife, mind you. I’m not letting any damned grease monkeys tinker under my wife’s hood.

Or anyone else, for that matter. I even installed a Lo-Jack. Don’t ask. And no touchy, leadfoot. I’m watching you.)

Five hours and five hundred dollars later, I had the car back, with not one, but three new tires, a remounted exhaust doohickey underneath, and a fancy new inspection sticker worth its weight in… hell, I don’t know. What costs five hundred bucks for a fraction of an ounce, anyway? Gold-plated platinum? Really, really good crank? Concentrated stripper sweat? I’m not sure.

The truly amazing thing is that the ordeal could have cost me more. After a point, this garage simply wouldn’t take my money. I told one guy that if they’re changing three tires anyway, and I suspect the fourth has a slow leak, why not give me a whole new set?

And he pooh-poohed me. Insofar as a large, greasy Italian mechanic can ‘pooh-pooh’ anything, really. More likely, he ‘pshaw’ed me, or ‘pfffffftttt’ed me. Later, I was even ‘fuggedabahtit’ed. The point is, they wouldn’t do it. They were content to make the other fixes, patch my last remaining original tire, and leave it at that. I guess mechanics in New England are easily guilted, too.

After they’ve collected my five hundred bucks, of course. Dese guys in da garage, dey’s sweethearts and all, but dey gotta eat, ya know what I’m sayin’? Youse ain’t gettin’ outta dere with a full wallet, but pays more than five hundred smackeroos? Fuggedabahtit!

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Categories: A Doofus Is Me, Cars 'n' Drivers, Work, Work, Work

Tags: car+inspection, comedy, driving, flat+tire, fun, funny, garage, humor, mechanic

April 24, 2006

Good Eats, Amazing Feats

First, there was Vin Diesel.

(Yeah, I know. First there was Bill Brasky. Don’t interrupt me; I’m building up to something here.)

Then, there was Chuck Norris, Mr. T, and Jack Bauer.

Then, just because I could, there was Neil Patrick Harris.

(Why? I have no idea. Clearly, I’m not getting enough vitamins in my diet.)

#20. Alton Brown’s cakes don’t rise. They ascend.”

And now, another modern cult hero goes under the microscope. Ladies and gentlemen, for the first — and very likely last — time anywhere, I’m proud to present:

Thirty Facts About… Alton Brown

#1. Alton Brown grinds his own peppercorns. With his teeth.

#2. Alton Brown’s chili cheese fries are healthier than raw carrots. Even after he adds the bacon and lard.

#3. Alton Brown brushes his teeth with wasabi and gargles with pickle brine. But still his breath smells like lemon merengue.

#4. Alton Brown can boil a three-minute egg in thirty-seven seconds.

#5. When Alton Brown was born, he collected the hospital slop they’d left for his mother and made it into an zesty, appetizing goulash. The dish fed the entire maternity ward for a week.

#6. In the first, as-yet-unaired episode of Iron Chef America, Alton Brown single-handedly defeated an all-star team of Bobby Flay, Cat Cora, and Hiroyuki Sakai. The secret ingredient was ‘whimsy‘.

#7. Alton Brown doesn’t reduce sauces. He demoralizes sauces.

#8. Alton Brown prepares his fugu blindfolded, with one chopstick and a plastic spork. Alton Brown ain’t afraid of no chump neurotoxin.

#9. Alton Brown’s blender has four speeds: ‘stir’, ‘mix’, ‘frappe’, and ‘plasmify’.

#10. Alton Brown can split a pineapple in half using only his pinkies. For coconuts, though, he has to use his thumbs.

#11. Alton Brown knows where capers come from. And he grows his own, on a Chia pet in the pantry.

#12. On Rachel Ray’s show, she shows people where to eat for less than forty dollars a day. When Alton Brown eats, people pay him.

#13. Alton Brown slices ham so thin, it can only be seen using an electron microscope.

#14. Some knives can slice through a tin can and still cut a tomato. Alton Brown’s knives can slice through a Pontiac, and still cut a tin can.

#15. Grown men have been known to weep for joy in the mere presence of Alton Brown’s vinagrette. His hollandaise sauce can kill a man from sheer ecstacy at forty paces.

#16. Alton Brown can eat just one Lay’s potato chip. If he ever bothered to eat food he didn’t make himself, that is.

#17. Alton Brown once got carried away slicing carrots, and julienned his cutting board. Undaunted, he sauteed the splinters in olive oil and spices — and they were delicious.

#18. Every Burger King Alton Brown has walked into has immediately closed forever — try as they might, they simply can’t ‘do it his way’.

#19. Alton Brown can pair a wine with any food — including hot dogs, ice cream, raw eggs, Alpo, sawdust, and soylent green. It’s people!

#20. Alton Brown’s cakes don’t rise. They ascend.

#21. Some meats are so tender, they seem to melt in your mouth. Alton Brown’s meats are so tender, he’s had entire turkeys vanish into thin air.

#22. Alton Brown’s no saint. But if his chicken Kiev cures one more kid’s leprosy, the church will reconsider the evidence.

#23. Alton Brown doesn’t whip potatoes. Alton Brown’s potatoes whip themselves, if they know what’s good for them.

#24. Alton Brown’s other car is the Wienermobile.

#25. Alton Brown’s show is called ‘Good Eats‘, because ‘Multiple Shuddering Mouthgasms’ didn’t play with the network’s target demographic.

#26. Alton Brown’s freezer operates at minus-twenty-seven degrees. Kelvin.

#27. Alton Brown once prepared shrimp gumbo for a cooking competition, using only salt, water, canned Spam, and a packet of Arby’s ‘Horsey Sauce’. He took second place. He would have won, but one of the judges was allergic to shellfish.

#28. Alton Brown can fit three hundred and forty-two cookies on a standard-sized baking sheet. Without any touching.

#29. When Alton Brown slices onions, the onions cry.

#30. Alton Brown was once asked to participate in a blind orange juice taste test. He was the only person able to successfully identify the brand, style, vintage, temperature, pH level, distance to the orchard, age of the grove trees, and the names of the workers picking the fruit. Including the one who needs to start washing after bathroom breaks.

Aaaaand, I’m spent. So, tell me — anything else about Alton Brown we ought to know? Enquiring minds are hungry for more.

Postscript!: If you liked these — the original 30 Alton Brown facts, thanks — then you might also enjoy Better Eats… and Amazinger Feats?: Thirty MORE Facts About… Alton Brown.

AND!!: Yet another set of A.B. trivia: ‘Mo Better Eats, ‘Mo ‘Mazinger Feats. Blog appetit!

(I selected this post to be featured on my blog’s page at Humor Blogs.)

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Categories: Foodstuff Fluff, Loopy Lists, Weird for the Sake of Weird

Tags: 30+Facts, Alton+Brown, comedy, Food+Network, fun, funny, Good+Eats, humor, lists, silly, Thirty+Facts

April 23, 2006

A Pantry Too Far

Sometimes I think the sole purpose of multilevel houses and apartments is to discourage snacking.

Mostly, I have that thought at times like this, as I sit in the second-floor office daydreaming about the food sitting in the first-floor kitchen. I know that if I were nearer to that food — just a room or two away, perhaps — I’d be eating it. Constantly.

It’s almost midnight, and I know I really shouldn’t eat at this hour — but no one seems to have explained that to my stomach’s satisfaction. And if tasty snacks were within easy reach right now, I know who’d win that argument. I also know who’d end up with Chee-to dust caked on his face and fingers, wondering how his ‘midnight snack’ turned into a four-course meal and a two AM tummyache.

“I could have a severed arm, and I wouldn’t walk that far for a Band-Aid; I’m certainly not schlepping all that way for Cheez Whiz and Triscuits.”

Luckily for me, the food is tucked away safely in the kitchen — way the hell down a flight of stairs, through a hallway, and around the corner. And I’m a lazy old fart. I could have a severed arm, and I wouldn’t walk that far for a Band-Aid; I’m certainly not schlepping all that way for Cheez Whiz and Triscuits.

Which leads me to wonder — are people who live in ranch houses or small apartments generally fatter than the rest of us? I remember my first studio apartment, a few years back. It was tiny. You couldn’t get more than ten feet away from the fridge if you tried. And I was too poor to go out much, so all I really remember is watching TV, sleeping, and eating. Lots and lots of eating.

(Ramen noodles, mostly, which don’t really count as food, made from cardboard and defective drywall as they are. But there was mac ‘n’ cheese, too, which is probably packed with calories.

Oh, and beer. Lots and lots of beer. It was the only carb I could afford, and after a few of those, I’d forget that I hadn’t eaten meat or vegetables or fresh fruit in several weeks. That was nice.)

Maybe it’s just me; perhaps other people in single-floor housing have greater willpower. Mine’s virtually nonexistent, though. Occasionally, I’ll test myself by bringing a ‘stash’ up to the office. A bag of Doritos, maybe, or a jar of peanuts. And I’ll tell myself:

‘Nice and easy, now. Pace yourself, and these goodies will last you a few weeks, without the hassle of running to the kitchen every time.‘

Ten minutes later and the food’s gone. The only evidence left are empty, licked-clean containers and Planters-flavored belches. The guys from CSI wouldn’t even find traces of food. Gone.

So I know better than to stock myself a mini-fridge up here, or to ever move back into single-level housing. Me in a two-story house — old, lazy, and well-fed, but not morbidly obese. Me in a ranch home, or back in that studio? I’d have the fire department on speed dial, because they’d be winching my wedged-in carcass out of the bathtub every morning. Not a pretty visual.

In my current digs, though, there’s little chance of that sort of ballooning. My inertia is simply too great for a rumbly tummy to overcome. Tonight, for instance, I’m wrapping this up and going to bed, hunger pangs be damned. Those Chee-tos will just have to wait until we’re in the same neighborhood. I can lick that bag clean tomorrow.

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Categories: Blasts from My Past, Foodstuff Fluff, The Happy Homeowner

Tags: Chee-tos, comedy, food, fun, funny, humor, hungry, midnight+snack

April 22, 2006

Lost in a Fantasy World

I think my fantasy baseball obsession may have finally gotten out of hand.

This year, I drafted five fantasy teams. Five. I’ve never had that many teams at once. And for a guy who can’t balance his checkbook — or count to twelve with his shoes on, for that matter — it’s a bit much.

“You wouldn’t go to a mechanic that had never rebuilt a tranny, right? Or a stripper who’d never wrapped herself around a pole.”

It started out innocently enough. I’ve always been a big baseball fan, and when fantasy leagues made the jump from pencil and paper drudgery to internet automation a few years back, I hopped on the bandwagon. For the first couple of seasons, I managed one team at a time, and I was content with that. Not very good at it, mind you. Who starts Bret Saberhagen on the road after the All-Star break in an even-numbered year? Me, that’s who. I’m an idiot, clearly.

After a while, the ‘drafters remorse’ started to get to me. I’d come out of a fantasy draft, when I should’ve been thrilled with my new team — looking their stats up online, memorizing their lifetime on-base percentages and wives’ and kids’ names — but I wasn’t, really. I had these nagging doubts, like: ‘Was Mo Vaughn really the right pick in round six?‘ Or: ‘What made me think this was the year Bill Pulsipher would put it all together?‘ Or even: ‘Rafael Belliard?!? How many fricking beers did I drink?‘

So, I started playing two teams. The first was a ‘practice’ team of sorts — I’d play out the season, sure, but that squad was littered with idiot picks. I simply couldn’t be trusted to make good decisions without the benefit of a little experience. You wouldn’t go to a mechanic that had never rebuilt a tranny, right? Or a stripper who’d never wrapped herself around a pole. How about a gynecologist who’d never smeared a Pap? I think not.

Of course, my strategy was predicated on actually learning from my mistakes, which is clearly not my strong suit.

(I’m still writing here, after all. ‘Exhibit A’, ladies and gentlemen.)

So, I’d end up with two lousy teams, bursting at the seams with scrubs and has-beens and part-time platoon pinch-hitters. Often they’d be different no-talent jackasses, but they were no-talent jackasses, just the same.

It was about that time that ESPN started offering three teams at a discount. Those shifty, conniving, weaselly marketing bastard geniuses. Three’s a charm, right? Why the hell not — what else have I got to do all summer?

From there, it’s snowballed further. A couple of friends want to play on another site, so I start a team there. Other people I know wanted to set up a ‘keeper’ league — ooh, so now I can hold on to light-hitting utility man Khalil Greene for five whole years? Gee. Where do I sign up?

It’s funny how these things sneak up on you. Not ‘funny ha-ha’, mind you. More ‘funny hey, why don’t I spend two and a half hours every morning checking box scores and batting averages, wouldn’t that be a hoot?’.

The whole game experience has changed now, too. With five fantasy teams, I’ve pretty much got everybody in the major leagues, on one team or another. I looked the other day, and I think I’ve got a clubhouse attendant from the Mariners and the Dodgers third-base ball girl on one roster. In terms of ‘coverage’, I’m in good shape.

On the other hand, it’s rare that I have a particular player on more than two or three of my teams. So I find myself watching highlights, saying things like:

‘Yeah, a double off the wall! But shit, that’s my pitcher, too. Bitches!‘

‘Damn, I can’t afford another hit to ERA, or batting average. Call the game off! Rain, damn you!!‘

‘A home run! Forty percent hooray!‘

I think the situation would be completely intolerable, if I didn’t follow one simple fantasy baseball rule: ‘Never draft anyone you can’t stand to cheer for.’

Finally, fantasy mirrors real life. No matter which team I need to pick it up, or which player I’m rooting for, the Yankees can all go to hell. There’s one thing we can all agree on, fantasy or no. Play ball.

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Categories: Wide World o' Sports

Tags: baseball, comedy, fantasy+baseball, fun, funny, humor, sports

April 21, 2006

Greetings, Grumpy!

I’m having a problem with an ‘aggressive greeter’. That’s one of those people that makes a point of saying ‘hello’, regardless of your obvious attempts to ignore them completely. This forces you to grudgingly return the greeting, or else continue failing to acknowledge the person’s existence, and feel like an asshole about it later. And I don’t like being forced into difficult decisions like that, dammit. How rude.

Here’s what’s been happening:

There’s a store I go to a couple of times a week. What type of store isn’t important — maybe it’s a convenience store, or a boobie bar, or liquor barn of some kind. Possibly, it’s a pet store where I swallow my pride and take the mutt for ‘doggy daycare’ twice a week. You’d never get me to admit that, but it’s theoretically possible that’s the store in question.

“It’s not a social call; I haven’t stopped by for a heart-to-heart over a cup of joe and a quilting bee.”

Now, my routine in this particular establishment is simple. Get in, do my thing, and get out. It’s not a social call; I haven’t stopped by for a heart-to-heart over a cup of joe and a quilting bee. I’ve got shit to do, and ninety percent of that shit is outside the store, dig?

Besides, I’m only in this store at two times of day — in the morning, when I’m grumpily on my way to the office to nap, and after work, when all I really want is to get home and start shooting tequila. Either way, extra minutes spent in the store is time stolen away from what I’d rather be doing. So I tend to focus on getting in and out without a lot of fuss.

I should also mention that these trips don’t require a trip to the cash register. The actual monetary transactions are taken care of outside the scope of these visits, so there’s no need to interact with the staff behind the counter. At all.

And yet.

Every morning I walk into the store, scurrying head down and blinker-eyed to my destination. Past the displays up front, past the first few rows of shelves, and past… the checkout counter.

‘HELLO, THERE!‘

Every day. Like clockwork. There are at least a dozen people that work shifts in this store, but one woman in particular is there every single morning, afternoon, or evening I walk in. I can switch days I show up — doesn’t matter. I can go early, later, just before closing, whenever. She’ll be there. Perky and smiling and forcing her chirpy salutations down my throat.

‘GOOD MORNING!‘

‘HEY, I THOUGHT YOU WEREN’T GOING TO MAKE IT TODAY!‘

‘HOT ENOUGH FOR YOU, IS IT? HIYA!‘

Some days I want to stuff her full of kibble and feed her to a pack of dingoes.

Now, I know she means well. She’s just one of those cheerful, outgoing, perpetually perky sorts of people. The kind that remind the rest of us why we live far, far away from Katie Couric and Mary Lou Retton, and why it wouldn’t be safe to own heavy blunt instruments if we did.

I just don’t like being manipulated into interpersonal interactions, is all. I mean, just look at me. I have the social skills of a lobotomized poo-flinging rhesus monkey. Why force me into uncomfortable situations that can only end in tears, hurt feelings, and smashed Snausages? I don’t get it.

I do my duty, though. When the lady greets me — from thirty or more feet away, and far out of eye contact — I sigh, choke back a ‘Curses! Foiled again!‘ expression, and say hello. It’s the only reasonable, neighborly thing to do. Could I walk by, pretending the greeting were never delivered and ignoring her completely?

Maybe.

But could I ignore her words, and sleep at night without the nightmares of an angry unrequited ‘hello’ haunting my dreams? I think not.

Still, it’s maddening. It’s a little game I play — Is she out today? Could she be on break? Will she miss me altogether? But I never win. And I’m never going to win — this woman’s there for the long haul. I can see that.

So, I’ll have to change my strategy. Trying to walk by her isn’t working; I need a way to distract her from her mission. Maybe I could dump Cat Chow in the floor, and slip by while she’s cleaning it up. Or add catnip to the ventilation system, to angry up the felines. Start a fire in the gerbil Gymboree, maybe? Seems iffy.

I suppose I’ll just do what I’ve done every time so far. I’ll walk in, take my ‘HOW ARE YA?!‘ like a man, and get the hell out of there. After all, how else could you deal with one of these ‘aggressive greeters’? They’re diabolical!