The Assassination of My Attention Span by the Coward Robert Ford

Alright, I haven't done a review in a while, but James Cash has Netflix, so a lot of movies come through here. A lot of discs of Arrested Development too, which may be why I'm a little disappointed and surprised that it's Hugh Ross narrating The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford rather than Ron Howard. I felt the movie was full of cons and sprinkled with pros, but could see how critics loved it and how it was nominated for a couple Oscars (which I don't believe in anyway).

For starters, two and a half hours is a long time for a movie, especially one without any bears. I didn't like the selective focus in many scenes, though I did love the fog and mystery in the first train robbing scene. There were too many "the clouds are moving fast to signify passing of time" moments, and too many characters with too many names. It was hard to keep things straight, and I felt like the octogenarian at the movies who has to keep asking who a character is and what's happening now. Most of my other complaints of the film come from not realizing it wasn't going to be an action movie. While watching, I couldn't help but compare it to "3:1o to Yuma," the only other Western I'd seen in quite a while. I thought Yuma was better, due to it having more action, more clip-clopping of horses and more Luke Wilson, though I know this was a more character driven plot. Also, the title kind of gave away how the movie was going to end. Imagine if the Sixth Sense had been renamed "The Sixth Sense of Being Able to See Dead People, Like Bruce Willis." Honestly, Jesse James should have had a spoiler alert in the title. The ending is a bit of a downer too.

I was only vaguely familiar with the Jesse James story, but had remembered him being completely awesome. Apparently that wasn't the case, as he was portrayed as a paranoid, violent asshole of a man. Casey Affleck was real good in the movie, but I couldn't help thinking to myself "hey, wow, Casey Affleck killed Jesse James. This on top of him being a total badass in 'Gone Baby Gone.' Casey's so much better than Ben." Robert Ford was weird as hell, seemingly in love with Jesse, and like everyone else in the movie, a horrible liar. You'd figure in the Wild West, everyone would know about poker faces and not sweating while recounting a made up story of slipping on the roof or where someone they killed was "hiding out." You'd be wrong.

On the pro side, I did pick up the use of "peckerwood" as a salutary phrase.

Adulthood Strikes Part the Second

I recently had a revelation that I missed out on my 2os. Everyone's twenties is all about uncertain living conditions, struggle for a job, hard partying, lack of responsibility, etc. Out of college, I was lucky enough to live with my parents, so it didn't matter if I had a job or not. They were kind enough to provide for me for a nominal rent fee of $100 a month when I could afford it, and I worked odd jobs like tutoring a 7th grader for the SAT to please his overbearing overachieving parents or setting up and shooting product shots for K-Mart of Orange County Choppers' cologne to get spending money. While I'd get sick of sitting around playing video games instead of applying for a full time job (I was convinced any day I'd make it as a photographer and needed to keep my options open), or frustrated that my friends were at work during the day rather than hanging out with me, I never really worried about much. People I knew were moving hundreds of miles away after college and trying to make it on their own, while I was safe and secure, if a bit stuck in adolescence, in my parents' apartment.

It's four years later, and somehow I've aged 10-15 years. At age 25, I got a yoke attached when I co-bought a condo with Human Dynamo, my close friend since I was 15. It's been great, since I have a backyard and we were able to modify the apartment as we saw fit, mostly (no fireman's pole or secret entrances and trapdoors, yet). However, most of my friends my age have moved around a couple of times since college ended, traveling and living free. Oh, and the housing market has since crashed, meaning had I waited my current castle may have been cheaper. I've become rather domestic too. Sometimes it just feels like I'm in my 30s, and I know my days of freedom, if not over, are numbered. As a man with a commitment, I can't just up and leave for Italy or California without giving serious thought to my ties here.

All this really leads up to me turning 27 today, and so far not getting the only gift I really want: a sun bear. They're the smallest of all bears, weighing in between 100 and 150 pounds as an adult at a length of 4 1/2 feet, putting them on par with a Newfoundland. Keep in mind when reading the following excerpt from the Honolulu Zoo's website that I have neither a cocoa or coconut plantation, nor are any to be found in Brooklyn. Their high reproductive rate is impressive and useful, as I could soon have an army of semi-slothful tree climbing bear-soldiers* at my beck and call.

The Malayan sun bear is the smallest member of the bear family. It is also the one with the shortest and sleekest coat - perhaps an adaptation to a lowland equatorial climate.

These animals grow to approximately four and a half feet in length and have a tiny, two-inch tail. Their average weight is less than 100 pounds. The short-haired, deep black or brown-black fur is interrupted on the chest by a pale orange-yellow horseshoe-shaped marking. In folklore, this yellow crescent is said to represent the rising sun and is apparently the origin of the name sun bear.

They have a long narrow tongue which can be extended quite far. The long sickle-shaped claws on all four feet and the large, inward-oriented feet are most reminiscent of the sloth bear. Malayan sun bears are skillful climbers, a useful ability for a species which spends a lot of time climbing trees to get fruit.

DISTRIBUTION and HABITAT:

Although they inhabit both lowlands and highlands, the Sun bears are primarily forest dwellers. They rest and feed in trees in tropical to subtropical regions of Southeast Asia - Borneo, Sumatra, Malay Peninsula, Kampuchea, Vietnam, Laos, Burma, and possibly southern China.

BEHAVIOR:

Relatively low weight, strongly curved claws, and large paws with naked soles help to make the Sun bear an adept climber. It is primarily nocturnal, frequently resting or sunbathing during the day on a platform of broken branches several feet above ground level.

Malayan sun bears sometimes cause a great deal of damage to coconut palms and on cocoa plantations. Young cubs are so lively, playful and attractive that they are often kept as pets in their native lands, but they become treacherously bad-tempered as they grow older.

In zoos, Malayan sun bears often scratch one stone after another out of walls, using their sharp claws.

DIET:

Malayan sun bears are omnivorous. They eat small vertebrates such as lizards and nesting birds and fruit. They are also very fond of honey.

REPRODUCTION and GROWTH:

Sun bears may mate at any time of year; they are thought to have only one mate. Two or three cubs are usually born after a gestation period of 96 days. The young, usually weighing 10-15 ounces each, are suckled for about 18 months. Females reach sexual maturity at about three years and males at four years. These bears live 25 to 28 years in captivity.

Sure, the shared fondness of honey could be a problem, as I envision us comically getting angry with each other whenever Apollo or I finished the honey and didn't buy a new one, but it would also be something we have in common. What does the first half of this post have to do with the last? Well, if I didn't have this condo and 29 years left on my mortgage, I could currently be in Myanmar with a sun bear friend, rather than fruitlessly trying to bribe a local zoo for the release of their ursine captives.


*There were so many good links for bear-soldier, and I wanted to post them all. Here are a few more: Link 1, Link2, Link 3 and Link 4

You're a Tree By the Way

J-Live, notoriously ridiculously good MC, has a song off his last full length album called Do My Thing. The first time I heard it, in my infinite wisdom, I was pretty sure the hook was "You're a tree, by the way, I do my thing. By the way, I do my thing." I just assumed a tree was new slang, and the hook writer was very casual, yet matter of fact, in informing me that he does his thing. The actual line is of course "intrigued by the way I do my thing."

However, this was a great segue into me planting a tree in my backyard! I won't profess to being an expert gardener; most of what I'm doing is trial and error with a little help from the world wide webs and advice I give myself. I saw the dwarf Blenheim apricot tree while shopping for soil and decided I needed to have it. Planting it felt like quite an accomplishment, and not only has it not yet died, but it seems to have tiny green fruit that hopefully will turn into actual tasty apricots. This was followed by two highbush blueberry plants, which also now appear to be fruiting. Check out photos below, and note my excellent mulching technique.

All this gardening has excited many people, including the building's possibly vampire super who has decided he will have the pickles and potatoes I'm growing in my vegetable bed (I'm growing neither pickles, which are delivered by a stork anyway, nor potatoes). I'm also convinced he wants access to my vegetables for his own nefarious purposes. What I'm actually growing is red leaf lettuce, sugar snap peas, eggplant, dragon carrots, zucchini, a potimarron squash and roma, sungold cherry, brandywine, sweet pea currant, brown berry and costaluto genovese tomatoes. In case they ever develop cars that run on fairly obscure tomatoes mixed with common tomatoes, I'll be in the money. Till then, it's salsa sandwiches with V8 for meals.

In other backyard news, James Cash and I named the ridiculously bright red cardinal that visits our backyard Benedict. Thankfully, despite being highly territorial, Benedict has not yet attacked his own image in my window or his mirror he uses for preening. His song sounds like this: "bright bright bright, cheer cheer cheer." And no, learning that from the Field Guide to Birds of North America that I own doesn't make me feel like a dork.

Jobs Ahoy!

While technically there hasn't been much change in my employment status, I did recently pass an interview with flying colors* and come second week of June, I'll be the newest and proudest member of the WCS family. That's right. I've been hired as a volunteer wallaby hugger and river otter playmate at the Prospect Park Zoo. Yes, Prospect Park has a zoo. Yes, it's in Brooklyn. Yes, seriously.

To start with, I'll be working in their Discovery center as an adult supervisor, with animals like kestrels, tarantulas and some other things which I didn't hear because I was busy feeling squeamish about icky spiders and other invertebrates that freak me out. I can only assume one of my duties will be throwing kestrels at kids. Or, at the very least, supervising them in the proper manner of throwing kestrels at each other, as only an adult like myself could.

I'll be issued a uniform shirt, and am allowed to wear bermuda shorts; there isn't much of a dress code, because as an adult, I'll know how to be properly dressed at all times. It goes with the territory. No doubt I'll also be beating women off with a stick, because it's a proper fact that women love a man in uniform. Eventually I'll get to give talks to kids and educate them on how much better a bear is than whatever animal I'm holding and supposed to be talking about is. First, of course, I'll have to go through animal handling training, which will undoubtedly make me even more irresistible. Women can't control themselves around uniformed adults who are allowed to hold porcupines and know things about them. True fact.

The only thing I'm still uncertain about is how much and how often they'll be paying me. I mean, I'm not planning on volunteering for free or out of the goodness of my heart. If suitable monetary compensation cannot be agreed upon, I'll gladly take my pay in wallabies. I'm easy going and flexible like that.


*This, despite me feeling the need to bring up my totally rational fear/hatred of squid and octopi. Damned parrot like beaks and multi-suckered tentacles.

Raised Bed, Raised Bed

A couple weeks ago, I finished building an 8' by 4' by 1' raised bed out of a bunch of old studs I found in the basement and a 16 foot long 2 x 12 of deliciously sappy Douglas fir from Home Depot. I even installed small PVC pipes along the side in case I ever want to run bird netting or plastic across the top to extend the growing season. The project took some time and effort, as 8 foot long lumber isn't easy to maneuver or attach to shorter lumber using small screws I had lying around (the themes being cheapness and reuse of materials). Despite drilling a good portion of the holes on my wooden floor, I managed to never drill into it. Naturally I was excited to finish this personal project one year in the thinking, and composed a song for the occasion.

Raised bed, raised bed
What you gonna do?
What you gonna do when I grow vegetables in you?

After a few renditions, James Cash started to hate me. But no worries, as I soon had a new reason to sing a different song. After filling half the bed with fifteen 40 pound bags of soil, I managed to quickly come up with this song:

Top soil, top soil
What you gonna do?
What you gonna do when I fill the raised bed with you?

Admittedly, it doesn't have that certain excitement, tension and superior lyrical quality of the first song that just grips you, but I was working quickly. In fact it was really more of a freestyle. Afterwards, we put my grill outside and decided we needed light out there so we could bbq at night, which resulted in a trip to Home Depot and a purchase that excited Jamie. Clamp light, clamp light...

Anti-Cat Defensive Measures

The southwest, northwest and northeast entrances have been sealed off.



Plastic forks stuck into the earth to discourage the cats from walking in these areas.

A month after they were originally installed, it's been more or less proven that they're much less effective than advertised. While I'd love to introduce a frightening animal like a tiger, monitor lizard, dragon or griffin, I'm quite unwilling to introduce that animal's droppings into my garden to deter the cats. Really, I should set up welcome mats that catapult (no pun intended) the furry feline menaces when stepped on; automated super-soakers on motion detectors; and some sort of convoluted Mouse Trap-like device that will cage them when an old man does a back-flip into a bucket of water.

I HATE Cats

Reported by a reputable news source, April 23rd, 2008 -

On Tuesday it was announced that President for Life of His Own Bedroom, L Bo, has gone ahead and passed legislation authorizing the construction of a border fence to keep out illegal immigrant cats. The bill has met with some resistance, especially from noted feline friend James Cash Penney, who claims we should adopt these cats and keep them in our apartment, rather than "throw jelly beans at them early in the morning." In my defense, it was only the orange ones, which nobody wants to eat anyway.

"Clearly," said L Bo, speaking to a sold out crowd of well-wishers, lovely ladies and the occasional protractor throwing detractor, "the measures I've taken so far to keep these no-good furry beasts out of the yard have not worked. Despite creating what I thought to be an impenetrable blockade by sealing off every entrance way I saw with plywood and cinder blocks, these clever cats keep finding ways to get in. When chased out, often they find themselves running in circles trying to find an escape route, but can apparently contort and collapse their entire bone structure to fit through quarter sized holes. In one susceptible corner, I created a 6 foot high wall to keep them out. Yet when pursued, Whitey McKittenhead was able to scramble up the 90 degree angled plywood and leap to safety. Despite my hatred for Felis silvestris catus, I couldn't help but be impressed by it's feat of daring and climbing ability."

"How can we hope to win against an enemy like this, one willing to do whatever it takes to crap in my vegetable bed and meow loudly at obscene, single digit hours of the morning? All I know is if we don't fight them, they will follow us home. This wall MUST be built, and hopefully afterwards the extra measure of a moat filled with fearsome sea monsters, but not of the cephalopod variety. Thank you for gathering today, and together, we can eradicate this menace."

On the pro-cats disrupting life side are L Bo's neighbors, pentagenarian Ana and her man-child son, Squeaky Von Pubertybergsondale. When asked to stop feeding the cats due to their violation of his raised bed garden, Anna replied, despite knowing they weren't her cats and were feral and annoying as all hell, that "I have to. If I don't, they'll starve." When pressed about the dead kitten found outside L Bo's window last year and the kitten head discovered in the yard that later disappeared this month, Anna stood their dumbfounded. Her son later complained to L Bo about being kept awake by pitiful meowing late at night and around 4 AM, and about how hard it was to keep the cats out of the yard no matter how many plastic forks are buried up to their pointy hilts to discourage entrance. When informed they might come in less if his mom and him stopped feeding them, Squeaky said "No, I don't think so. They'll come in anyway. I'm pretty sure I'm right and not at all stupid; there's obviously no connection between me leaving food for them and them trying at all costs to come in for the food." Indeed Squeaky.

Old McDonald Had An...Orchard?

Today, I bought an apricot tree. Well, a dwarf apricot tree, to be exact, of the Blenheim variety. Blenheim apricots are noted for their superior taste when compared to other apricots, even gaining the nickname "King of the 'cots," as well as their poor shipping record due to thin skin. Rarely will you find these treats outside of California...unless, of course, you come to my home in Brooklyn in 2 years.

Today was not just a day reserved for the purchase of immature stone fruit trees that shan't bear produce for a couple of years. In addition, I'm also the proud owner of 15 forty pound bags of topsoil. Boo-ya!

Update This, Microsoft Windows!

Nobody reads my blog anymore. My theory is not because it's gotten significantly less interesting, but probably because it's not called Stuff Liberal Minded Poor White People Named L Bo Like. Whatever.

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My sister was accepted into NYU's graduate program for super cool people who want to study sociology cause she's really smart and awesome. Plus, she could kick your ass, if it came to that.

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In a super democratic election at the non-secret apartment meeting involving the super, the current treasurer, the man who was to become director and me, I was voted secretary of the newly created Board of Directors for the condo. Unanimously. Especially if you don't count the 5 other apartments who weren't represented at this meeting, and I don't. Better go dust off my stenography machine and long skirt.

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My work was accepted to sell on PhotoShelter.com. This is good news for everyone. It means you can finally buy my photos of boats on Lake Michigan or shorebirds on the Santa Monica beach for that travel brochure/huge advertising campaign/calendar/article in Time magazine about me that you/your boss/your friend/your mom/anyone you know with multiple dollars to spend is putting together. Obviously, it's good news for me as I would get said multiple dollars.

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Jamie "James Cash" Penney moved into my apartment as my brand new roommate recently, which meant I could finally end the countdown clock I had started after he committed at New Year's. It was analog and accurate to the minute, updated by turning over the pages like an old baseball scoreboard every 15 minutes. We're both about the same level of messiness, which is good. He likes things neat, but doesn't want to clean every day. I like things neat too, but want someone else to make them that way.

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I went to see Avenue Q with Dynamo and some others last weekend. It was super good. There's something about puppets watching porn and being racist that soothes the soul, especially when that soul just received, and promptly lost, 8 delicious chocolate chunk cookies from a cookie shop in Jersey City.

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While attempting to cross into Jersey via the Holland Tunnel, I noticed a man on 6th Avenue selling glow sticks. He didn't seem to be doing brisk business, unlike the pretzel and hot dog guy who delivers to your car. Why would I need a glow stick to drive through the tunnel? Was it that dark in there? Was the circus performing? Was the whole awful traffic mess actually caused by a giant rave inside? I had many questions.

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A photographer I just started working for asked me the other day what I wanted for lunch.

"There's a lot of choices around here. Is there anything you don't eat?"

I replied: "I can't handle spicy food, and I don't eat squid. I'm actually rather frightened by them." Noticing the blank look on his face, I figured it was a story better left for another time.

Happy Hippity Hoppity Bunny Day

No, this year I won't be posting hilarious videos of the Cookie Bunny in order to celebrate Easter. Been there, done that. I will talk about another tradition, however. Every year for the last few, DJ's mom graciously invites me, Human Dynamo and some others for Christmas and Easter dinners, since I am of the Jewish persuasion and HD's mom doesn't really enjoy spending time with him. Being Sicilian (and 11% sub-Saharan too, but she's not constantly bragging about that or anything), Rosemary is an excellent chef (and person) and always cooks up delicious, 241 course meals. Along with Gary, DJ's funny and jovial father, and joined this year by HD's lady friend and Janet, we sat around the table for 4 hours, enjoying each other's company, Italian delicacies and delicious wine.

At some point in our deep, philosophical and serious conversations, we wondered if there were other groups of people enjoying Easter dinner and having the same discussions as us somewhere on the Earth. I hope so, cause if not, what the hell are we trying to save? So in order to unshroud (deshroud?) and dispel the mysteries surrounding our exchanges, I've listed some things we talked about and what I learned.

Things from Easter: No, Not Just An Excuse For Another List:

• Easter celebrators eat lamb, pork, veal or ham traditionally and not chicken or beef. This is most likely because chickens and cows have traditionally denied Jesus' rising 3 days later.
• It's possible Jesus didn't die on the cross according to a show Rosemary and Gary saw on the History Channel. His followers somehow infiltrated the cross hanging group, probably through ninjitsu means, and lowered him after 3 hours. Treating his wounds in the crypt, Jesus was able to emerge 3 days later and ride off into the sunset. This is mostly supported by his autobiography, supplemented by concrete photographic evidence.
• I'm pretty sure I had heard that theory before too, and it even went further to suggest Jesus sired a male heir and there's a whole bloodline. I'm also pretty sure this theory was put forth in Preacher, somewhere between issues #6 and #12.
• The Dalai Llama inadvertently caused traffic on the West Side Highway that almost led to me being late for dinner, a tragedy since the only thing I was asked to bring was myself on time (a truly incalculably valuable gift to anyone who knows me even a little).

• Janet is the most generous and greatest person I know. She brought me a cup full of delicious, organic jelly beans stolen from Google's CEO's desk, comics from Australia and New Zealand, unbelievably delicious South African white wine, and is semi-willing to have my children, presumably if nothing better comes along.
• Our kids would have superior DNA. I proved it scientifically.
• This qualified as easily the greatest Easter ever, and perhaps even the best day in, if not ever, at least all of March (which feels like forever) as, in addition to the embarrassment of riches already mentioned, I received two boxes worth of comics from DJ. Good thing I'm not working right now, as it'll probably take me the next 3 weeks to read all of them.
• We almost had cookie bread this year. Maybe next year there will be onion wings too.
  

• DJ's 12 year-long-and-counting plan to keep me and one or both of his fine female friends apart may be coming to an end. My biggest obstacle at this point may be choosing which one of the sisters to make an honest woman out of. Probably the medical student who will no doubt be willing to completely provide for me so I can continue my life of luxurious lethargy.
• List within a list of qualifications so Rosemary can upsell me:

1. Height. I've got being tall working for me.
2. Wittiness
3. I love to eat food
4. I'm cultured. By this, I mean we came to consensus that I could talk about bears for weeks and had knowledge of marzipan from different parts of the world.
5. I've traveled and would like to more
   
6. I was told being unemployed probably isn't that attractive. But that can be spun. I'm a free-lancer who loves freedom and free food and can travel to say, Philadelphia for a long-distance romance due to my free time. Not to freeload, of course.

• Batman can't really hire sub-contractors or outsource his work. I mean, even if he doesn't have them add the bat logo to everything, how many people are really ordering utility belts for non-superhero or villain purposes? HD pointed out that in Batman Begins, Bruce and Alfred set up shell companies and order everything in parts to later assemble, as well as bulk orders of things like his mask, but still, it seems like even this would cause suspicion. Thinking about this also gave me new found respect for Bruce, because he put together the Batcomputer (which is probably the world's smartest computer), the Batmobile and...well, everything in the Batcave. He's a man of tremendous skills, resources and disguises.

I hope you've enjoyed the tales of our confabulations, and perhaps next year can integrate some of these flawlessly into your own dinner table discussions to enhance Easter. "Please pass the potatoes, which may have been grown by a member of Jesus' bloodline."

Recent Intellectual Conversation

I recently signed up for an online dating service since I have no interest in leaving my apartment to find women and this is the closest, non-embarrassing and legal alternative to mail-order brides. I'm finding out that the road to love is fraught with bumps and...uhm...this...

Girl: Good Morning=)
I like your photos

Me: Thanks. What kind of dog is that you're squeezing? Is he/she yours?

Girl: He name is CoCo. He is Havanese. Do you like the dog?

Me: Yea, CoCo's cute. I don't have one, but wish I did. They're so much responsibility though. Plus, I'm sure my dog would try to steal my food all the time.

Girl: Do you like the dog?

At this point I didn't know what to do besides laugh. And be a little weirded out. It seemed like maybe there was a code I was missing, or like I was involved in some sinister scheme to take her dog off her hands. It was almost like this, where maybe if you keep asking for something enough, they'll give it to you. Though I guess maybe all the answers reside in her profile:

HeY ThErE ! ! !

Thanks for comming to visiting my profile.

> > >I'm a sweetie girl, LooKing FoR A NiCe GuY, FuNnY, WaRM AnD GeNtLeMaN.

* * * * * If YoU ArE, WhAt ArE YoU WaiTiNG FoR??? * * * * *

End of Another Era: Question Mark?

My unemployment adventures may be coming to a close. Not really by choice. "Freelancing" since June 15 of last year hasn't been all that bad if you don't think making money is important in any way. It has allowed me to pursue other interests, including watching a lot of Scrubs reruns, being lazy, sleeping in and making banana fritters.

I had a slight scare the other day, when I actually got the non-profit job I had interviewed for. I remember being ambushed at the interview, probably not too unlike how Swamp Fox used to ambush Redcoats, and being told I had to teach the kids for 3 hours that day. Nervous and in somewhat of a panic, I desperately looked around for an escape route, before going to the bathroom and talking myself out of removing the bars from the window. Despite all that, and spending most of my time engaged in a conversation about how cool Carnage is, I got the job.

Unfortunately, due to fears of giving up my daytime (and nighttime) cookie eating parties, my inability to commit for a year and their repeated usage of the abbreviation ASAP, I had to pass. The job was given to my runner-up when I asked for some extra time to think about it. It was tough to pass up, in light of having a mortgage to pay, but at the end of the day, it wasn't like someone walked up to me and asked me to join the Justice League. "Here's your power ring, we really think you could help us fight crime and evil aliens bent on world domination. It is full time, so you'll have to abandon any dreams of being a photographer, but you can fly and have super strength." That would be an easy decision.

After dodging that bullet sans powers, I think I'm going to go celebrate by taking a nap on the couch.

End of an Era, Revisited

Human Dynamo came over Saturday for a few hours to get discouraged by the huge mess he had left behind and to not take anything he needed, except for spices and a coffee press. It had been almost a week since he moved out, yet I managed to hold back the tears and shake his hand, firmly and with no traces of being lonely.

As touched on in End of an Era, I miss Dynamo's Xbox360 more than him. I figured when he took it with him, I'd be more productive; I'd have one less distraction in my life. Dynamo predicted I was wrong, and it turns out he's right. It used to be, I'd just throw a game in and play until I realized I should have been asleep 2 or more hours ago, with the exception of Bioshock. This game is so eerie, I'd have to watch something funny on TV to soothe my nerves, otherwise I wouldn't be able to go to sleep for fear of a splicer jumping out to get me. The game is freaky, yo! In fact, the only thing that's scared me more recently is the tree octopus, which ***SPOILER ALERT*** turned out to be a hoax. I probably would have figured that out sooner had I not been rendered immobile by panic at the idea of a multiple terrain and altitude intelligent killing machine, dropping onto my head from it's high perch on a spruce, with it's suckering tentacles and poisonous sharp parrot-like beak trying to peck into my brain. Not to mention it has beady eyes. AHHHHH. I'm scaring myself writing this.

My productivity has now actually declined, as I spend more time looking for distractions. I've dug out old computer video games, been forced to buy new ones and hooked up my PS2. While it's still fun to play, I'm constantly lamenting over the less good graphics when compared to Xbox360. Due to this, I'm forced to play longer to get the same quality fix. One hour of PS2 equals 20 minutes of Xbox360. It's just simple mathematics. While I do get to sleep earlier at night, I sleep the sleep of the restless, lonely and unfulfilled. This new era, the age of More-After After Xbox360 (or M-AAX) has begun, and I'm way less than thrilled about it.

Happy Valentino's Day

Valentino's was a pizzeria by my parents house that I used to frequent when I was in elementary school. In sixth grade, we were allowed to go out for lunch, a privilege and freedom for kids that age that undoubtedly no longer exists. Valentine's day that year, I decided I was going to ask my childhood crush, Erin, out to lunch. I got all prepared, asking my friends for advice, and was set to be the ultimate gentleman; I was going to pay for the pizza AND pull her chair out for her. Somewhere along the line, our signals got crossed, and she ended up at McDonald's while I ate a slice alone.

But I'm not bitter. Valentine's Day marked the beginning of one of my relationships, senior year in high school. I cleared my parents out of the apartment for the night with my wiles and cooked up a nice dinner in my fanciest sweater. This led to a two year relationship, and to me attending SUNY Albany freshman year even though I didn't really want to.

Like most guys, I'm not huge on Valentine's Day anymore. Cliched notions like it's too commercial a holiday aside, I've subscribed to Human Dynamo's thinking. If you love someone, you should show it all year round, not just on a specific chosen date. He feels the same way about birthdays, though does enjoy the weekend long celebrations that have become common in our crew, and also about President's day, as every month or so he sends a love letter to Abraham Lincoln.

As far as romance goes, I've always thought the holiday season was far more romantic. With temperatures that are at least tolerable, festive lights everywhere, everyone in a happy mood and the chance of a magical white Christmas, this is the time of year I wish most for a girlfriend and romantic dinners in front of a fire place.

The End.

Back in the Saddle

So I had my first job interview in almost three years today, to be a part time photography teacher for elementary school and junior high kids at a non profit after school center. It started off not so great, as I somehow got lost in the city and walked the wrong way, ending up 5-10 minutes late for a position that was close to being filled anyway. I spoke with the Director of the Media Center for a few minutes, and then she sprung on me teaching the kids, who are of all different skill levels and already know how to print black and white, how to print. Oh, and then she enhanced my resume for me, telling the kids they were lucky to have a professional photographer and graphic designer on hand as their visiting artist and teacher. I don't think I'm really a professional at this point, but it sounded cool to all the kids, so I had to go with it. Thankfully I wasn't quizzed, but I feel secure I could mostly outsmart 12 year olds if it came to it. It's like on a first date though. I try to be interesting and myself, only better, funnier and more charming. However, I would never say I have my own detective agency or I once climbed Mt. Everest, because she's going to be disappointed enough after the second date without finding out I'm a liar also.

Four hours and many headlocks broken up later and I couldn't help feeling I'd just been suckered into working for free. Interview, my ass. It ended with the director and I speaking about how the day went, and before I could stop myself, I was taking off my shoes and changing to basketball sneakers. In my defense, the back of my feet were all cut up. Hey, if a date ends with me taking off my shoes, that's a good night right?

****************

Tonight I started to appreciate the value of living alone. Walking in the apartment, I was able to throw everything down, shed my pants, sit down on the couch and turn on whatever I wanted, with no fear of Suze Orman raising her ugly head, or anyone being disturbed by my less than fully clothed state. I also learned a valuable lesson: drinking a liter of Dr. Pepper before bedtime will probably lead to nervousness, twitching, anxious energy and most likely render bedtime useless.

Average Expectations

For the last two days, I've resolved to be quite productive and find a job as well as a future ex-wife, but only so long as I can do both online and conveniently. In fact, if there's no "Apply Now" button for the job on monster.com, I move on to the next one. I'm finding both of these tasks rather difficult, but also noticing that surprisingly, they share some similarities.

With so many people applying for the attractive options, it's really hard to differentiate yourself. You have to come in with the mindset that at least 50 other people want this. What makes me better than any of them? I just am. You'll have to take my word for it. And don't ask any questions that put me on the spot, like what's my best quality or what quality do I not like about myself that I'm working on.

I'm tired of trying to market and sell myself to strangers when I know I'm a perfectly adequate choice and would perform moderately well as boyfriend or employee. I know what I can and can't do, and don't apply for things out of my league. Hotbibella79, who likes big muscled guys with tattoos, I'm sorry but I don't fit the bill. AvantiCreativeDirector08, I just don't have the experience or skill set to head up your department. I understand this, and am ok with it. With more experience and less fear of needles, maybe one day, but for now I'm okay with where I'm searching. Unfortunately, ladies can't see my ginormous biceps and statuesque body through their computers, and jobs can't see me causing huge amounts of dollars to flow in the future by looking at my resume.

Inevitably, 80% of the women and jobs you apply for just won't get back to you. I used to believe it's rudeness, but maybe they do it to keep your dignity in tact. You understand when you don't receive a response that nobody likes you without anyone having to spell it out for you. Hey, rejection hurts. I was just rejected to be a photographer/studio assistant at a hospital, and in fact, they additionally noted I wasn't qualified for the job. I'm pretty sure they were one step away from calling me a stupid cretin and telling me how out of my league they are. How am I not qualified for that job? I'm a photographer, I can assist, I've watched Scrubs and I've been in a hospital before. Perfectly suited. You know what, job, I didn't really want to have you anyway. You were just a backup until a hotter job got back to me.

End of an Era

In between crashed scaffolding and "haha, you're moving to Jersey" jokes, Sunday, me, Dynamo, his quite sick lady friend, and his incomprehensible and constantly plotting cousin moved Dynamo and said lady friend to Jersey City, New Jersey. USA. Why would we do such a thing? Mostly because Dynamo got a job in Parsippany, NJ, USA, making machines emit noise so that something can be tested. Finally getting a chance to pursue his dream career of software engineer without having to sacrifice his morals and help build better tracking devices for military killing machines, he's been waking at 4:00 AM and getting home at 5:30 PM or later, cranky about half the time. Now, thanks to the physics of distance and time, he can comfortably sleep till 5:30 AM and be home much earlier.

Unfortunately, Dynamo had to sacrifice living in the Dr. Seuss wing of the Brooklyn castle we have shared since it's purchase last October. Moving day was odd, dividing cups, plates and silverware and trying to make sure HD left with important things he'd need for the coming week, including bottles of alcohol, the Boondocks book and his electric razor. While I got to keep the rice cooker and I'll probably hide the salsa maker so I don't lose that, I have lost the stainless steel kitchen/prep table, used for eating, cooking and putting things when I walk in the apartment. I'm left with a dining room table which is much less glamorous, and no way to put it together, because Dynamo saw fit to steal the nuts that kept the legs on.

As good friends since 9th grade, I have no doubt we'll stay close despite the distance to Jersey City, New Jersey, USA. However, there's definitely a dynamic change between best friends and roommates. It also means I'm going to have to start leaving the comfort of my home to hang out with a friend, which is mighty inconvenient for me. While helping him pack moving morning, I couldn't help thinking of the episode of Friends when Joey moves out of the apartment him and Chandler share because he has more money now and wants to experience living on his own.

Since I'm too poor to buy out the other half, we're going to continue owning it together and I'm going to get a new roommate. My friend Jamie (who, despite his name, happens to be a guy) is moving in on April 1st. Until then, for the first time in my 26.75 years of living, I find myself living by myself. The first day was definitely lonely and a little weird. There's now this room downstairs (we live in a duplex) where someone used to live that's neither cleaned out nor full. It's almost taboo; I see the stairs that lead down every time I go to the bathroom, but have no reason to go downstairs, so I shun it and pretend it doesn't exist. While I miss Dynamo, at least I'm not staying up late watching the rain on the window and wondering if he is too, a la previously mentioned Friends episode. Besides, I think I miss the Xbox 360 more.

Weather Related Disaster Strikes

This is somewhat more catastrophic than my last post. Jealous that adulthood was getting all the cool headlines, the wind and cold weather decided it needed to strike too. Unfortunately, the target was a scaffolding up the block from my castle. Like the wolf of urban porcine lore, Mr. Puffy Cheeks kept blowing until it forced the mesh netting to topple the 6 story high scaffolding, crushing what lay below. Thankfully no people were injured, despite their best intentions. While live wires carried live electricity and current that could end lives, and sparks flew everywhere, and unlucky tree branches burned, people walked, roller-bladed or drove as close as they could. I couldn't help thinking of the scene in Die Hard With A Vengeance when Bruce Willis shoots at the power line and it hits the helicopter which in turn majorly explodes. Good thing that didn't happen.

Adulthood Strikes

Somewhere between eating candy before/for dinner last night and buying comics today, I realized what an adult I've become. Was it the purchasing of cornbread at Whole Foods, simply because I saw it while waiting in line to pay, mirroring how I bought Haribo Fruit Salad and Fizzy Colas last night? Or could it have been the marshmallows I originally went in to said natural food giant to buy? Maybe it was having two separate conversations with two different people about comics on the subway ride home. Yes, I know there's a new Iron Man movie coming out (and I'll see it, though I'm not positive he had nothing to do with the death of Steve Rogers).* In any case, I'm going to stick with the upper age on Haribo's friendly mantra: "Kids and Grownups love it so."


*P.S. Like I told gold-tooth man, Daredevil, Punisher and the Hulk were all bullshit movies. Though Bullseye is raw.

Arkansans

Things I thought while reflecting on my last blog posting:

• Whatever happened to those fake breasts that were thrown around at my New Year's party?
• If people from Kansas are called Kansans, are those from Arkansas called Arkansans? Arkanoidians? Archangels?
• I wish Gideon Defoe's blog was Americanized. It's hard to follow all his British pop culture references. While researching everything is quite informational and enlightening, it wastes time that could be spent cramming XBox 360 playing before Dynamo departs Brooklyn and absconds with it.
• What was that other thing I thought of while watching the address but then forgot, but wanted to add to yesterday's blog since it was probably funny?
• I still have to discuss with my sister, and eventually divide ownership of, all the plastic dinosaurs bought from the American Museum of Natural History. Unfortunately, I think the Iguanodon rightfully belongs to her. I'll be sad to see it go, because it's funny to make believe he's the Fonz and taunt the other dinosaurs. "Hey, sit on it T-rex."
  
• In light of the fact that no one is stepping forward and volunteering to iron my shirts for me, I need more space-age, futuristical no-wrinkle fabric shirts.
• I HATE washing my socks, cause then I have to match and fold them all.
  
• I think Darks McKnight would be a good alias for me.

Kansans

Things I thought and later remembered while watching the State of the Union address and the Democratic Response:

• I actually missed the first half of the State of the Union. And by missed, I don't mean in the sentimental sense
• Is Kathleen Sebelius, the governor of Kansas, really the best person to represent United States Democrats?
• Man, I'm bored
• Shouldn't Governor Sebelius have shutdown Kansas' Board of Education after they "intelligently" voted on the theory of creationism?
• Yawn
• I had no idea folks from Kansas were called Kansans. I always assumed they were called Kansasistanis, Kansasknights or Kentuckians.
• Later research has shown me where I can finally get a photo of this dreamboat to hang over my bed. They really should increase the contrast on the black and white image; it looks rather flat
• John McCain is really scary looking when he smiles, and his teeth are kind of buttery
• Maybe McCain stole Paul Wall's grill
• Did John really just say he appreciated George Bush's sincerity?
• Chocolate chunks, chips, or a fudge swirl really make chocolate ice cream more appealing to me
• Does anyone notice if you use the same State of the Union address a few years in a row, changing Iraq for Iran? (To "quote" Outkast, "Bombs over....Tehran?")
• The audience at the State of the Union address was a who's who, with Senators, House of Representatives, Supreme Court Justices, even Bob Dole. It reminded me of the scene in the Muppets Take Manhattan when Kermit married Miss Piggy, and the casts from the Muppets Show, Sesame Street and various other muppet related shows came out to celebrate. Oh look, there's Sweetums, Sam the Eagle, Gonzo and oh my gosh, even Bert and Ernie!!

Too Much Time?

Recently, while crudely writing a message from Dynamo to me on an orphaned sock in green permanent marker ("Me want c Hitman - Sherm") to prove my point that he wanted to see Hitman with me, I realized it's been 6 months since I've held a full time job, and I'm still managing to survive. But first, I realized I may have too much free time on my hands. I mean, not only did I have the time to engineer and carry out this masterful plot, but I was able to also blog about my exploits.

Minaya's Lasting Mistake

On Friday, Met's GM Omar Minaya decided to spice up the off-season with a boneheaded move, trading away 22-year old prospect Lastings Milledge for much older and scrubbier players, Ryan Church and Brian Schneider. Way to go!

Marty Noble, Mets beat writer who usually tells it how it is, claimed this falsity:

Milledge remains highly regarded because of his quick bat. But he wasn't as good a fit as Church for the Mets -- at least for 2008 and perhaps '09 -- because he bats right-handed. With Schneider, a left-handed hitter, catching and Church playing right field, the Mets now can have three switch-hitters (Jose Reyes, Luis Castillo and Beltran), two right-handed hitters (David Wright and Moises Alou) and three left-handed hitters (Carlos Delgado and the two new men) in their most regular lineup.

The Mets have trouble hitting lefties...the solution, apparently? Trade for a lefty who can't hit lefties. While Church hits well at Shea, he also hit .229 last year against LHP. At 29, he's in his prime, and that's the problem. A still developing Milledge will post similar numbers to him this year, at 7 years his junior.

In addition, the recently acquired Johnny Estrada is as bad an offensive option as Schneider, but cheaper by a million or two per year. While it's true that Milledge is a better center fielder than corner outfielder, judging by his remarkably superior play in center while filling in for Carlos Beltran, but won't get to play that position for many years, he's still a better option than Church.

Lastings was once mentioned in trades for Manny Ramirez, Roy Oswalt and Dontrelle Willis. Coming off a subpar year, Milledge's trade value had plummeted, but trading him for two scrubs has left the Mets without many bargaining chips. Or Utz chips for that matter. Lastings used to pick them up from the corner bodega on game day. Without proper nutrition derived from crab chips and without good young players, I'm afraid Minaya will be forced into signing subpar Livan Hernandez in an effort to corner the market on old Cuban pitchers named Hernandez.

Mr. Noble, bucking the trend of his fellow writers who denounced the trade, believes that both Schneider and Church will be good fits for the Mets, "the kind of players that make the whole greater than the sum of it parts." Sorry Marty, but sometimes crappy player plus crappy player really just equals a lasting mistake.

Black Boxes

Recently, Human Dynamo got a job as a software engineer at a company that manufactures radio frequencies and puts them into scanners so the supermarket can figure out how much that pear you want to buy costs. He admitted to me that he didn't really understand how RF works, but he doesn't need to; to him, it's a black box. The black box principle is explained in detial here: black box explained, in detail. I admitted to him, I didn't really understand how his job worked, so it was a black box to me, just like the whole black box principle was a black box to me.

It was with this intense scientific background that the following conversation more or less occurred Friday night when Dynamo somehow decided to discuss with me and his lady friend a problem he was working on at work.

Dynamo: So I'm working on this problem at work, and I'd really like to talk to ya'll about what I do every day, since I figure you two, with your sound scientific backgrounds, will understand quite easily. I'm trying to get this machine to emit something or other and so I need a clock pulse to make it happen. See, the way it works, is there's this digital signal. It looks a lot like a sine curve, or the graphs used on the back of transformers figures to denote power ratings, but they're square instead.

Then Dynamo made a drawing, showing us how you can fit a bunch of small, tiny digital signals in the space of a larger, digital signal. Whatever the peak sine thing is called, and all that. I'm still not quite sure why.

Me: Are you having trouble due to the black box theory?

Dynamo's lady friend: What's the black box theory?

Me: It's like when there's a cat inside a box, and you're not sure if it's dead or alive, but it probably isn't alive. Because live cats tend to crap everywhere and make a general mess of things. Or maybe that's Shroeder's principle. Which would probably help clear up the backyard problem.

Dynamo: No, that's not what it is, it's...

DLF: Oh, it's like back in math class, when you have a math problem, and it's 2 + box = 3, and you don't know what's in the box and it could be anything.*

Me: Well, it's always going to be 1, or some form of it at least, like 16 over 16. See, what it actually is, things go into a hypothetical black box, and then come out, and you don't know why they came out as they did or how, but it doesn't matter. You just know that it did. Kinda like a really complicated paper shredder or pasta maker where someone else put in the ingredients.

Dynamo: Ok, yes...well, at least you two didn't talk about parallelograms or wolves. So I'm trying to figure out the best way to do this, and while L Bo I know you're curious about why you can't just create the code once and copy it over and over, attenuator.

Me: What's an attenuator?

Dynamo: Also, actuator.

Me: ....?

Dynamo: It can be anything. It actuates things.

Me: So once you come up with the code, how do you add that onto the computer chip?

Dynamo: See, there's gates, and you can open or close different ones for a reason you won't understand. I use VHDL** to make the program, and then...well, since you probably already know how it's done, why don't you explain?

Me: Ok, so when you're done with all the programming, a giant stamper, similar to the flavor gun used on Cinnamon Toast Crunch, is used to impart all the knowledge onto each individual computer chip that is created, right?

At this point, we went off on a bit of a tangent and discussed the benefits of a stranger...which Dynamo kindly demonstrated the preparation for. Then proceeded to watch Tivo like a stranger. Dynamo's lady friend told us to stop being 7th graders. But honestly, 7th graders don't yet know about the stranger, as they're still infatuated with regular.

Dynamo brought the conversation back on track by explaining to me why a clock pulse was needed to time the increments that his machine emitted something or other, and what a clock pulse (which he had started to explain 2 hours prior at the beginning of the conversation) was.

Dynamo: Ok, well picture a clock...tick, tock, tick, tock.

Me: Oh, so it's like a clock. With a pulse. Hey, that's why they call it a clock pulse. Makes sense.

Dynamo, lying on the floor after falling off the couch: Ouch.

*DLF stands for Dynamo's Lady Friend. And she almost always speaks in mathematical symbols.

**"VHDL clearly stands for Voltron Hyper Markup Text Language," I knowingly interrupted with at that point.

Veggiestein

Last night for Hinduzilla's (thus named for his hinduism as well as propensity to swipe helicopters out of the sky and breathe radioactiveness on buildings) birthday we went to Vegetarian's Paradise 2. I was immediately struck by the large menu, that had many food choices...there was chicken dishes, beef, seafood, duck. But how could this be? Dynamo and I, in a show of our true intellect, were both perplexed every time we saw "crab" as an ingredient. Apparently, veggie-heads, as they often call each other, like to play god with their food. They take these vegetables that they so love, and create a Frankenstein like meat out of them. Soy becomes chicken nuggets, or some random protein on a sugarcane to resemble a drumstick, or slices of duck, complete with artificial skin on it. While completely indigestible by the average human body, these dishes were still rather tasty. Despite this, I think I'll remain omnivorous and get my protein the old fashioned, carnivorous way.

On Stuffing, Cranberry Sauce and Dogs

Happy Thanksgiving to all, and to all a Happy Thanksgiving. Look, at least I didn't say Gobble Gobble, or Happy Turkey Day. The turkeys are definitely not happy that day...but they are kind of delicious. However, I tend to flock more towards the stuffing and the homemade cranberry sauce while saving room for the endless amounts of pies that always congregate on my aunt's table. This year, my plan was no different, though the pies didn't quite fulfill my expectations for them. There was a decent pear, a really good custard, a pecan that nobody wanted to eat, and some wack cakes.

The weakness of the dessert wasn't the only surprise this past weekend though. Every year, we head to my mom's sister's house in Medfield, Massachusetts. This year, we didn't need to use any tranquilizer darts on my mom on the ride up or back down. My 16-year old cousin, who in my mind is still 5 and holding a stuffed cloud leopard named Spot, is somehow one year away from graduating and 40 pounds heavier than me. Helping him get so large is a Powertec home gym my uncle bought for him, which is sturdier than most and runs on roll bearings instead of ball bearings, or so I'm told. There's another reason it's so sturdy: it looks like it was made from rejected Caterpillar parts. I swear, it's some sort of wack Constructicon, whose alternate form would be used by Starscream behind Megatron's back to get dynamite pecs in preparation for a coup. Lastly, but definitely not least importantly, I saw no bears on their land. Not that I ever have, but what's the point of owning land if you're not going to attract bears to hang out?

On the way back, my family stopped off at Petco to get some home improvements for my sister's hamster. I looked at pets to buy, but none were large enough to properly be awesome...until I happened upon a book about Rottweilers* and read that they will follow you all around the apartment, guard your stuff with intense courage, and will help you do laundry. An ideal pet if ever I'd heard of one. Logically, I set to work preparing for when I would own one by figuring out what his ideal name would be first. For your astonishment and reading pleasure, I've listed, in no particular order, the names I'm deciding from, thought of while riding shotgun.

• Thor - Obviously, the dog will have to prove himself by being able to lift Mjolnir. Shouldn't be a problem though.
  
• Dr. Doom
• Mo
• Gideon - If he has a proclivity for ham, pirates, lusty wenches and drinking out of the toilet.
• Jasper
• Bear - This doesn't even need explaining, and is tied for #1 choice right now with the Odinson.
  
• HoJo
• Wallace - This would only work if he's a goofy dog, like a sheepdog or something.
• Dwight Freeney - I already have a plant named after him, but that doesn't make it exclusive. If my dog is the best pass rushing dog, then he too can be named after Dwight.
• Rowlf or Ralph - This is a no-brainer if he's a St. Bernard. I named my childhood stuffed dog after Rowlf from the Muppets, but couldn't pronounce it, so he got Anglicized into Ralph.
• Grizzlebee
• Green Lantern
• Spector
• Moon Knight
• Biscuit
• Steve Rogers - Rottweilers are known to be courageous. And they could probably throw a vibranium shield.
• Clint
• Nomad
• Kodiak
• Cliff - After Method Man, not Clifford the big red dog
• Slick Rick - Also not after Clifford the big red dog
• Willis - I actually forget who this would be after
  
• Shea - To honor the Mets
  
• Colossus - To honor the X-Man
  
• Hercules - To honor the ancient Greeks
  
• Jax - To honor...actually, just cause
  
• Optimus
• Jerome
• Barksdale - Avon was a Golden Gloves champ and found with grenades, among much other contraband
  
• Bismarck - I think it's a little much to expect my rottweiler to be the father of modern Germany, but he should appreciate his heritage
  
• Richter
• Marino - Favre stole his record, this may make up for it
  
• Roscoe
• Bruno
• Wyatt
• Doc
  
• Koko B. Ware - I might not be able to resist naming him this, though it'll probably get him laughed at by more legitimate dogs who will frequently get to wrestle in more important matches than him. Time has not been kind to Koko, unfortunately, but apparently, the Birdman is flying again.
  

*Those that know me know that I call them Rockwilderz and believe they can fly. I just didn't want new readers to think I was weird. But, just think about how awesome that would be, for a minute.

Who Currently Holds the Dragon Star Belt?

In speaking with DJ about his Thanksgiving day plans, I think I discovered a fundamental flaw in the way my brain works.

DJ: Yo, call me Tsunami, cause I'm going to tear up thanksgiving dinner. I've been in training, and I'm gonna hit that hard.
Me: My thanksgiving dinners are more a marathon than a sprint man. Gotta train differently. Also, call me Machine, or Superstar.
DJ: *silence*
Me: We were discussing WMAC Masters again, weren't we?

Your Mom's the Speed Limit

A couple months ago, I received a traffic violation ticket for making a left turn onto a road that was left-turn prohibited until a certain time. I didn't see the sign until I was halfway through the turn and in the middle of the intersection. Not wanting to cause an accident, and because I really wanted to go left, I made the turn. Cops immediately pulled me over and notified me of the error of my ways. Eventually, I remembered to dispute the ticket and was granted my day in court.

Thinking it best not to drive to traffic court and worrying about metal detectors and other such delays, I Q-trained it over to the DMV in Coney Island where I ended up waiting for 20 minutes. About 25 of us entered a small room that had what I assumed to be a judge and a clerk, and sat on benches. The judge would call the offenders up one by one, ask them how they plead, let the officer state their case, and if they met their burden of proof, hear the offender's defense. While waiting, I got to be entertained.

"This is my cell phone bill from T-Mobile. You'll see I made no calls during that time. This is my only bill, and I can't have made this up, since it's from T-Mobile, and I don't make their bills. It wasn't a phone in my hand, maybe she saw me scratching my ear."
"She didn't see me do anything, because the car in front of me ran the stop sign, not me, and she made a U-turn so she couldn't have seen me."
"He was following me too closely. I was fine. He should have gotten the ticket for following too close, not me," said the lady, ticketed for following the car in front too closely, about the cop who gave her the ticket. Denial's a fine defense, but when you really want to make your point, turn it back on them. No, you're the one who is guilty!!

Finally it was my turn. The lady cop who was the partner of the male cop who had given me the summons wasn't prepared to argue her case. The judge refused her motion to reschedule, since I was a first time offender and had shown up, and dismissed my case. I wonder if showing up on time always yields such positive results. Freed from charges against me, I celebrated by jaywalking all the way back to the subway.

House Happenings

On a recent trip to Home Depot, I bought a bypass lopper and an axe. Or a hatchet. Which to be honest, they shouldn't have let me buy. I love the loppers. Don't make any Cyndi Lauper jokes, because I've heard them already. I go outside with them (not Cyndi) and I've successfully attacked a mulberry tree, an out of control rose of sharon, and trimmed back my elm tree. They're addictive though; once you feel those blades slicing through wood like it was room temperature butter and you've rolled out of the way to avoid the much larger than expected falling branch, you'll never want to stop. The hatchet, on the other hand, is quite difficult to use. I've managed to chop down some smaller tree-like things, but I'm no George.* I did have a scary moment when I swung and missed, towards my left thigh, but had the presence of mind not to attack myself. Dynamo and I will be taking down the trees later, lumberjack style, probably without any self-inflicted bodily harm. Once that's done, I'll keep the hatchet around to practice my weapon throwing skills, ward off annoying super-intendants, and as a cat deterrent.

*************************************************

Dynamo's lady friend made us merguez (not mirgaz, as originally believed) last night. Merguez is a ground lamb with an exoskeleton of plastic casing, found naturally in the wild. It grows on trees and is picked in the early morning, when it's freshest. Deliciously spiced, it can be used to make just about anything that has merguez as an ingredient. Dynamo and I, being adults and all, petitioned his lady friend until she made our merguez in the shape of a bear, bison and 4 point crown, using cookie cutters which had previously been neglected. I'm now refusing to eat any ground meats unless they've been prepared in an ursine shape.


*As in, "and the cherry tree."

Cutting off my nose to spite my face

As you may have heard on the streets, my mom is really anxious to buy me a winter jacket.* I'm really anxious for her not to. I feel like it's a waste of money, as I have a jacket from 2 years ago that's still in good shape. And by this, I mean it still looks and feels like a jacket, not that it's biceps are impressive. But apparently, especially when compared to my mom and sister, I'm weird for not wanting two to three jackets for every season. I've told her that I don't even need cold weather gear, because I don't even plan on leaving my apartment this winter. I may even hibernate from early January till mid-March. I realize this means I'd miss important and sacred holidays like President's day, but I'm willing to make sacrifices. Anyway, to prove my point (and not just cause I'm lazy and couldn't find anything to do) I didn't leave the apartment Saturday nor Monday, and Sunday only left to pull weeds in the backyard. Take that, mom!

*No, I'm not some little kid letting their mom buy things for me. But I'll be damned if I don't accept handouts!

Heat Check

I think there's something wrong with our heat. More specifically, Dynamo thinks there is, and he'd know before I would. He occupies the parlor level (fancy way of saying his ass is in the basement) of our lovely duplex and relies on the warmth provided by Keyspan energy and some science I won't even pretend to understand a lot more than I do. See, there's this rebellious theory going round that heat rises, and since I occupy the deluxe/main floor, I'm not yet feeling the chill. I'm not saying my temperature's tempura, but I'm mostly comfy. When the cold does set in, I warm up the room in the most energy efficient and environmentally friendly way possible; I turn on the lights in my room, throw on my jacket and leave the apartment. It's kind of like a heating lamp for lizards, and probably what they would do, if they had opposable thumbs, and could reach my light switch.

In the meantime, despite Dynamo's constant obsession with building things out of bamboo, there have been no panda visits. Bamboo flooring, bamboo glued together to make shelves, bamboo under the bed storage, bamboo roboot(s). Not a single panda. Not even a knock on the door, or an inquiry into the availability of pandaing in our apartment. Well, there's only so much luring we can do. I think we should take advantage of the temperature disparity in the house, and instead focus on renting the icebox lower level to more amiable folks who will appreciate the lengths we went to to make them feel accommodated. That's right, it's time to get polar bears!