Creationisn't

I spent a lot of my college time jotting down ideas that popped into my head. Sometimes it was just a phrase that I wanted to work into a poem for one of my classes, other times it would be a larger, thematic note about something I'd like to write. It was either 96 or 97 that two of these larger ideas came to me, and I sat on them until I had the time to act.

My plan was simple: each idea would make a great one-act play that would appear on the surface to simply be a parody, but in actuality, it would be allegorical and full of social commentary. I told my friends about these, and even started coming up with character names and a few lines of dialogue. Then I forgot about them. The "time to act" never presented itself, because I've learned that time doesn't do that on its own.

But then it did. I was working in Sacramento for a year, doing the most menial tasks you can imagine (filing thousands of papers in zip code order, etc.), and I suddenly had time. Most of my day was spent "looking busy," and I could easily accomplish that by writing. I wrote down all of the character names I remembered, cracked my knuckles, and was set to jump back in to the writing game. My final course of action was to do a quick Google search to make sure no one else had already written my masterpieces. Oops. Not only was I too late on both of them, but too late several times over. Here are my ideas and what I found:

1. "Omelet, Prince of Kenmore" In this one act play taking place inside a refrigerator, Omelet's father was just killed. His uncle Benedict has poached his mother (and the throne), and everyone is trying to find out if Omelet is sane or if he has cracked. His ladyfriend Florentine eventually gets so scrambled that she hurls herself into the icemaker and perishes. Line that brings down the house: (Sniff sniff) "There's something rotten in the state of Kenmore."

I had much more laid out, but that's the gist of it. A quick Google search shows me not only Sesame Street's "Omelet, Prince of Dinner" but also "Omelet, Prince of Denny's. A Tragedy in Two Cracks. By Francis Bacon." I don't mind the fact that Sesame Street beat me to the punch on this, but Denny's kinda hurts. So, that one was out. It's a shame too, because despite the bad puns and ridiculous nature of it, I really felt like I could do something with it.

2. "A Pair of Dice Lost" Newlyweds Buzz and Sally are in Las Vegas for their honeymoon. It was a surprise trip furnished by Buzz's dad, who dropped them off and will return at an undisclosed date to pick them up. They're small-town kids who are honest, hard-working people. Strolling through the casino (awesome set design, by the way), the craps dealer named Lou stops them. He explains how to play and offers to help them out on when and how to bet. After a couple of wins, they're riding high on the dangerous combination of victory and apple-tinis. The wheels fall off, and this tragedy ends with the couple penniless, roomless, and waiting for the father to bring them back home.

Here's the problem: a Google search of "pair of dice lost" pulls up 948,000 results. Baby Looney Tunes has an episode called "Pair o' Dice Lost," a retirement convention had a session called that, and many, many others have used that before me. In fact, one brilliantly juxtaposed "Paradise Lost by Milton" with "A Pair of Dice Lost by Milton Bradley." I realize I could abandon the play on words for the title and write it otherwise, but to me that loses too big a part of it.

So, my advice to all (especially to myself) is to do stuff when you think of it. You'd better believe I'll act faster than 7 or 8 years next time.

While we're on the topic of coming up with things, I think this is a good time to mention that my friend Dave says he created the term "No duh." Everyone else was just using "duh," he says, and he introduced the world to putting "no" in front of it but keeping the meaning the same. What can I say, he's a pioneer. And an idiot.

Have a very happy and safe New Year's Eve, gentle readers.

Text tickles

Good morning, and how is everyone on this (inquisitive pause) TGIT day?


Before I launch into more word and number fun, I have three important notes:

1. Yesterday was my half-birthday, and I only received one celebratory note all day. Thanks, Adam; without you, such milestones would be completely ignored.
2. Today is my Dad's full birthday, so happy birthday Pops.
3. This marks my 20th post, which is 19 more than I expected to have on this date.

Onto the fun. I can't think of anything that combines the realms of words and numbers more than text messaging. I know there are phones with full qwerty keyboards, but for years people relied on using the normal number pad for this form of communication. My friends and I used to be super-texting-crazy, and now it's simmered down to a regular-texting-crazy pace. I guess most people only use text messaging for conveying important things like "I'm on my way," "What's the attire for tonight?" and "Happy Half-Birthday." For us though, it was used for anytime something popped in our heads that needed an audience. This could be an Austin Powers quote that came up, a Poison song that we had in our heads, or even notification that we were going to the bathroom. It got pretty absurd, and by absurd, I mean awesome.

We used the "predictive text" feature of the cell phones. For those of you who don't know what that is, here's a very quick explanation: Normally to type "the," one would have to push 8-4-4-3-3. With predicative text, you only have to push 8-4-3 and it "knows" what word you were going for. This is a great feature that saves a lot of time and allows for easier no-look texting. It's not without its problems, though, and we've taken great joy in those problems.

The biggest issue is that some words have the same button combinations, and predictive text guesses which one you probably meant. It's easy to switch to the next word, but you have to pay a little attention. For example, "of" and "me" are both 6-3. So, if I don't take that extra step of changing the word (out of laziness or carelessness), I'll have text messages that start with "Tell of what time..." Naturally, we found these mistakes fun, and started purposely leaving them in our messages. This added a little detective-work to reading each others' notes. "Rate of!" would mean "Save me!" if stuck in a boring conversation or meeting. "That's book!" would mean "That's cool!" See how this works?

My favorite was a pretty standard reply of, "On shiv, goods, on shiv." That meant, "No shit, homes, no shit" and came up more often that you might think. "He" came up before "if," and "done" before "food," which led to such fun messages as, "He you want some done, let up know room, goods" Oh yeah, "up" is "us" and "room" is "soon." The only one I tried to remember to change before sending was "honey" to "homey," unless it was to my wife of course.

There were two other things I really liked about predictive text. First, it doesn't know some words. So I can either manually get the word to appear correctly or leave it as the Gibberish it spits out as its guess. I think you know which I choose to do. "Hey wanna grab a cursivo" came up often since it didn't know "burrito." My reply to that might be, "Nonmomoonm!" which meant "Mmmmmmmmmm!" Dave would call me a "citag," and I knew he meant "bitch." I'd try to reply by calling him and Dusty "bitches," which always came out at "citager." (Please note, I use the French pronunciation of that made-up word, so it sounds like sit-ah-ZHER. I thought you'd want to know such things.) He'd reply calling me a "mother duckes," and I'd easily know what he meant. Those phrases are all in our vocabulary now, and I've often heard myself say, "Listen duckes" at the beginning of a sentence. Usually to Dave.

Lastly, I enjoy seeing what words have the same number combinations with each other. Some are quite interesting, actually. "Lips" and "kiss" are the same, for instance. See, it is interesting. "Water" and "waves" are the same too. And (cover your eyes if you're easily offended) "cock" and "anal" are the same letter-number combination, which has led to some very anatomically-confusing messages. Those three are the best, but "prove"/"proud," "love"/"loud," and "awake"/"cycle" are kinda cool too.

I keep thinking of more and more, but I'm going to stop here. Please comment and let me know if there are any egregious omissions.

Happy Birthday, Dad. Let of know he you want some done later. Maybe a cursivo?

We're number fun!

It comes as no surprise to many of you that I enjoy wordplay. Puns (especially bad ones), crossword puzzles, and the intricacies of language are fun things to me, regardless of how dorky that may seem. It's a big reason I was an English major in college, and an even bigger reason why I took so many creative writing courses. I truly enjoyed finding the exact right words to convey my thoughts while also fitting perfectly into rhyme schemes and meters. I'm not very spatial, so these were my kinds of puzzles.

At some point in my wordplay history, I brought numbers into the fold. I'm not sure when it started, but I began using a term that will soon be sweeping the nation (yes, like "baby fish mouth"): 5ever. Before I go any further, please don't confuse this with the "using numbers as letters" phenomenon I wrote about in a previous post. "5ever" is not pronounced "sever" or even "fever," but rather "five-ever." Here's an example: "My parents and Greg's parents were friends before we were born, so I've known him for, like, 5ever." Ya dig? "When the hell are we going to get on Splash Mountain? We've been in this line for, like, 5ever!" I've found that the "like" is almost a necessity when spoken, because it clues the listener in to the fact that something cool and different is about to happen. At least in my mind.

Once 5ever became more natural amongst my friends, there were rumblings of futher adjustments to the word. For example, if 5ever wasn't conveying the "more than 4ever" feel enough, some wanted to jump to 6ever. I wholeheartedly disagree, and tried my best to shoot that down as vehemently as possible. Also, my friend Kareem tried using 3ever, which didn't make any sense to me. I said, "I understand that that's less than 4ever, but is it ten years or two weeks?" His response: "It depends." Nope, doesn't work for me. "I've only known this guy for, like, 3ever" just makes no sense to me. I hope you agree, gentle readers.

But it doesn't stop there. Will Paris Hilton do something stupid and slutty in 07? I'd say that's a 5gone conclusion. One-liners weren't just Henny Youngman's forté, hell, they were his 5té.

Before we get carried away, I want to go on record and say that this technique shouldn't be used for everything. Part of what makes it effective is its infrequency in speech, so let's not go crazy. I don't want to hear people saying something is "2derful," "3bular," or "11-der." I think those could work, but only in very specific situations. If you see a heavy-set ballerina, I think it's ok to say she's wearing a "three-three." Otherwise, maybe we should stick to 5ever.

I remember years ago seeing a preview for a movie (Barbershop maybe) in which one character referred to his friend's receding hairline by saying, "You don't have a forehead, you've got a five-head." So the movement's out there, I'm just trying to focus it on some key words and get it in some everyday use. I'd love to hear other suggested uses, so post away. But be careful with this new tool, folks. With great power comes great responsibility, or something like that.

Christmas recap

At the Klein Christmas Gathering, we have a grab-bag game that we play every year. It's pretty standard, where you can steal from other people or pick a new one from the table, etc. Last Friday, I told my sister-in-law Ilyse as we were saying goodbye that I'd see her on Christmas, and that I'd be #1 in the grab-bag. This was a ridiculous prediction because not only were there going to be 27 other numbers I could pick from the hat, but also because I was #1 two years ago and I think a few years before that too. But that was what I told her, so I also told my mom and a couple others (with a great deal of certainty in my voice, no less).

Still, I was pretty shocked when I pulled out the 1. Ilyse was standing right there when it happened, and she kept trying to figure out how I cheated. Maybe my extreme confidence altered the fabric of history, thereby giving credence to the notion that the mind possesses even more powerful abilities than we realize and that "seers" are just people who have slightly more developed regions of their brains. Or maybe my mom didn't shuffle the pieces of paper enough.

Typically, there are a couple of gifts in the grab bag that are undeniably better than the others. These are the ones that get stolen almost every round and that have people wondering aloud how they fell into the $10-$15 price range. In past years, this has been either a scanner, a mini t.v., or some other pretty cool appliance that my mom used some crazy coupon/rebate combo on to get it into the price range. Other times, it's just something that catches people's fancies, like a cool votive candle holder or a soft blanket. This year, it was...nothing really. Here I was with #1 and no one was afraid to be holding what I would ultimately want. There was a pretty cool tool set, but we have tools already and I didn't want to steal from my Dad unless it was something really cool. In the end, I stole a cute little alarm clock thing that my uncle had previously stolen from my wife. She really liked it, and I felt a little like Jack Bauer as I protected my family. Just a little, don't worry.

So overall, it was cool that I got #1 but would've been cooler if there was an "it" item this year. (Please note that we brought two gifts, and neither were worthy of my #1 either.) It's like I won the NBA lottery a couple of years after Lebron, Carmelo, Wade, and Bosh came out only to find myself choosing between a European project and an American project.

This all got me thinking about numbers though, and I have a lot to say on the subject. I think I'll try to break it into several posts rather than one super-long one, so hang on to your hats and glasses, gentle readers. Happy Boxing Day to all, and to all a good...box, I guess.

Ghost of Christmas Past

I typed in "angry Santa" on Google's image search, and this was one of the pictures that came up. Naturally, I had to go with it. Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it. I'll be heading over to the annual Klein Christmas Gathering in a little bit, so my time is short this morning. It's a great tradition we have, and I'm looking forward to it. Sadly, my friend Jon won't be there this year to attempt to tie or break his meatball-eating record, but I'm sure it'll still be fun.

Enjoy the holiday (or at least the day off from work). For your viewing enjoyment, I'm posting an article I wrote for a now-defunct website last year during the holiday season:

Spreading Holiday Jeers

Well, I guess it was bound to happen: the Christmas season is already thrust upon us again. I enjoy many aspects of this time of year, ranging from the annual Klein Christmas Gathering to the weather getting all the way down into the 70s at times. There’s one particular part of the season that really bugs me, though: the music. Now, I know I’m not original in bringing this up, but I think I have a different reason for my ire, so please hear me out. For the vast majority of people, holiday music bugs them because of its ubiquity and its downright catchiness. For me though, it’s all about the lyrics.

Case #1: The Christmas Song (first recorded in 1947 by Nat King Cole)
This song has some nice imagery and really sets it up well. I can picture the chestnuts, and I’m totally there in the scene. The cold weather embodied in a character named Jack Frost is a nice touch too. Then it happens: “To kids from 1 to 92”. Let me get this straight – my little nephew, who will be almost six months old at Christmas, doesn’t deserve a merry one? Lady Bird Johnson, who will turn 93 on December 22nd, will miss these warm wishes by three days. Why? Did the original scribe think that people of that age have had enough merry Christmases? Or that since babies can’t wish you the same, they should just be left out all together? Yes, I realize that “92” rhymes with “Merry Christmas to you,” but that’s no excuse. How about, “To kids from old to spanking new” or “For fresh-faced folks and wrinkled too”? By being lazy, Mr. Christmas Song Writer, you essentially curse the young and old by blessing everyone else. Shame on you.

Case #2: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (written by Johnny Marks in 1949)
Allow me to paraphrase in order to set the scene: There’s this group of reindeer, all with very cool names in a highly-prestigious position. One of them, however, has a normal name and a physical abnormality. Do the others welcome him into the group since he adds diversity and a different perspective to their everyday lives? Hell no. They mock the poor bastard. They “laugh and call him names.” He tries to hang out socially with them, but let’s just say that doesn’t exactly work out. Then, the boss man steps in one day and makes him a star. Rudolph delivers when the others can’t and ends up saving the day. The other reindeer are wicked pissed and suffocate him in his sleep, right? No: “Then all the reindeer love him.” Bullshit. There’s no way that would’ve happened. They’re just sucking up to Santa since he obviously likes Rudolph now, thereby making them (you guessed it) brown-nosed reindeer. The real winner in all of this is Santa, who was this close to a lawsuit for creating a hostile work environment.

Overall, I don’t think I ask for too much from my Christmas songs. Just tell me a plausible story and don’t shit on the little guy (or the old guy, for that matter). If that’s too hard for you songwriters out there, just throw in some “fa la las” and call it a day. Happy holidays, everyone.

Days and daze

My office does a strange thing and kinda gives us the week between Christmas and New Years completely off. I say 'kinda' because we're still expected to be doing work during that time, and I imagine I'll be checking and writing emails quite a bit during my time off. That said, today is the Friday before that week plus off, and I'm not sure how much concentration I'll have. Even hard-nosed cop Joe Friday seems to have trouble deciding whether to get the facts on the phone or in person. The internet would've driven him crazy.

So we're talking a little about days today, and that reminded me of something I need to share with you in case you haven't seen it yet:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dmVU08zVpA

Watch that, enjoy, and have trouble getting it out of your head. I have new respect for Justin Timberlake after watching that, and it almost makes me want to start watching Saturday Night Live again. The thing is, I've seen quite a few funny SNL clips on You Tube over the past few months, but not enough to record the program and fast forward through all the awkward and shitty ones. Also, most of the funniest ones I've seen recently are their new "Digital Shorts" and not their live sketches. That strikes me as...ironic. Within the past decade, the funniest stuff I've seen on SNL has either been a cartoon (Ambiguously Gay Duo, Ex-Presidents) or a pre-recorded piece (Lazy Sunday, Natalie Portman's gangsta rap). Come to think of it, my favorite parts of SNL have always been the non-live parts. Sure, I really enjoyed Massive Head-Wound Harry, Wayne's World, and other sketches like that. But those don't even come close to the enjoyment I got from the commercials for Three-Legged Jeans, Schmidt's Gay, Bad Idea Jeans, the toilet for two, and the Canis cologne ones. I'm going on the record to say that this is in fact irony: the best parts of a show that prides itself on being live are the non-live ones. Watch and learn, Alanis, watch and learn.

Ok, back to today's topic: days of the week. I worked for a year for a company up in Sacramento. Nice people, those Sackys. Anyway, I always entered through a door that was right near a woman named Cherry's work station. Before you call me a liar, I swear to you that I'm not embellishing here. Cherry would say something to everyone who walked in as the self-appointed welcoming committee of one. Here is what she would say:

On Mondays: Good morning! And how are you doing on this Monday, again?

On Tuesdays: Good morning! And how are you doing on this Tuesday, now that we survived Monday?
On Wednesday: Good morning! And how are you doing on this (beat) Hump Day?

On Thursday: Good morning! And how are you doing on this (pauses inquisitively) TGIT day? Hahaha!

On Fridays: Good morning! And how are you doing on this glorious TGIF day?

There were only slight modifications. If it were raining outside, it would be a "rainy Hump Day" or a "rainy Tuesday, now that we survived Monday." Every other Friday, she would ask about our "glorious TGIF day pay day." Lastly, since the company provided lunch for the workers on the second Friday of each month, that would be "this glorious TGIF day, pay day, and second Friday lunch day." Again, I shit you not. Can you imagine how hard it is to fake a genuine reaction after a few months of that? "Oh, TGIT! I see what you're doing there - that's clever!" I usually just smiled and said, "Fine Cherry, how are you?" without stopping to hear a response. It was best to keep moving.

I was so excited one day when I realized we had a three-day weekend coming up. What would she say on Tuesday? We didn't "survive Monday," so she couldn't use that, right? I kept thinking about it over that long weekend, and I jogged up to the door that Tuesday morning. And you know what? She was out sick. Do you believe that shit? The one day I actually want to hear her greeting and she's gone? I theorized that she couldn't stand the pressure of a Tuesday without a work Monday and had to stay home until the regular shtick could resume. She was a very sweet woman, so I almost hate to make fun of her. I at least stopped myself from telling her to call Thursdays "Sorry Honey It's Thursday days or SHIT days," and that was hard to do.

So, as I sit in my daze and try to get through this last official work day for a while, I know that Cherry is sitting at her desk welcoming people who are already fully aware of what day it is. Happy Holidays, everyone. I'm not sure how regular my posts will be over the next week or so, but I'll be here for sure after the New Year to talk about USC's loss to Michigan.

My yummy vice

Hello, my name is Peter, and I'm a nail-biter. An avid, relentless nail-biter. For some, it's a nervous habit that they have long wished to kick. For me though, I really enjoy it most of the time. Of course there are times that it gets a little too close and hurts for a few days, but that's never outweighed the positives. When I get a "good one," I can find myself playing with it in my mouth for up to an hour - even kinda flossing with it. Yes, I know how disgusting that sounds.

As a kid, my parents wanted me to stop biting my nails. They bought some kind of polish that promised to taste so bad that kids wouldn't put their nails anywhere near their mouths again. It did taste bad, and so extremely bitter so that every time I tasted it I made that "Oh, that's really bitter" face. Even as a kid though, I realized I had two options: stop biting my nails or learn to live with the bitter polish. I chose the latter. Eventually it wasn't that bad and my parents gave up.

As a grown-up nail-biter, I must say I've gotten pretty good at it. I have different techniques that I've almost perfected over the years. Even my wife has sheepishly admitted that I do a good job of not leaving myself with sharp and uneven nails. Here's a tip: you can use your bottom teeth as a filing board and "sand" away any roughness. Go ahead, try it out.

The only problems that I've really had biting my nails aside from occasionally making them too short is that nails sometimes come in handy. We bought some tangerines (clementines, to be more accurate) and I simply could not start the peeling process. They even have stickers on them proclaiming how easy they are to peel. I couldn't do it though; it was like using the end of a baby carrot to peel a sticker off something. That was still worth the enjoyment and sense of fulfillment I got from biting my nails.

"Fulfillment" really is a part of the whole thing. I look at my fingers at times and see longer-than-normal nails as projects. The longer they get, the more I feel like I'm dropping the ball. That's why once it's gone, and a shorter and tidier version takes its place, I get the same sense of accomplishment that one might from balancing a checkbook. (I've heard that feels good, but have no first-hand knowledge of it.)

Then I hit rock bottom. My dentist was looking at my teeth, and he casually asked, "Do you bite your nails?" "Yeah," I said, hoping his response would be, "So do I! Let's form a club!" Instead, he told me that it looked like nail-biting was causing my teeth to wear a little more than they should, and I might want to think about giving that up. I told him that I had once given it up before when it was important to me, so maybe I could do it again. Before our wedding, I told my wife that I wouldn't bite my nails for two weeks ahead of time since we might have close-up pictures of our hands. And you know what? I did it - pretty easily too. I missed my hobby, but it was for a finite amount of time and for a good cause.

The dentist's advice was almost two weeks ago, and I was kicking some serious ass. My nails started growing very quickly, and they seemed to get stronger too. In the rare occasion that I found a finger in my mouth, I was able to extricate it before any biting occurred. I began to open things more easily, and I was much more effective at scratching itches (I actually scratched too hard the first time, unaware of how to handle my new powers). I was proud of myself, even though my nails kept looking better and better to me. My wife said that I could clip them regularly, but it was a battle of wills now, and I wanted to see how long I could go. I asked her what seemed to be a logical question, and she thought it was ridiculous and disgusting - you decide: Can I still eat my nails if I use a clipper instead of my teeth? I just want to salvage one enjoyable aspect of having nails.

Last weekend, I showed my hands to Dusty, who has known me and my nail-biting ways for about 17 years now. "What the fuck?!!?" he exclaimed. I agreed. I kept looking down, wondering how those could actually be my hands. They were long enough that I felt like everyone at the poker tables was staring at them and wondering if I was protesting something in my own unique way.

I decided that I would wait to show my parents at our Hanukkah dinner tomorrow night when I see them, then use the nail clipper and attempt to throw the clippings away. Then two days ago, I fell off the wagon. I had just had a half-hour long phone altercation with a client, and I found my right index finger in my mouth. I rushed to pull it out of there, but it was too late: my teeth had met. One little bite, and I knew what I had to do. I couldn't leave a partially bitten nail out there for a couple days, let alone a couple hours. It would catch on things, and honestly, the temptation would be too much. I finished the job that my demons started for me. On my way home, I told my wife that the stupid client cost me a nail, and she was understandably moved by the seriousness of my actions.

So here I sit, with nine Klein-record-length nails and one normal-Klein-looking one. I have less than 36 hours before I show my parents, and then they'll be gone. I'm not sure how yet, but they'll be gone. I'm having trouble ignoring some of them more than others (I'm talking to you, left ring finger), so time can't move quickly enough. Wish me luck, gentle readers.

But damn, that one nail was delicious.

Words words words Part II

I'm a big fan of a Canadian band called Sloan, and I don't know anybody else who is. The thing is, they're huge in Canada and pretty big in some cities in the northeast US, but no one's really heard of them here. My wife thinks they're ok, but after going to a show that they had in L.A. with me (they come once every couple years), she's vowed never to return. Chris from the band bugged her so much with his constant mugging and what I guess he thinks is showmanship that both of us spent the majority of the concert trying to ignore him. Not a good sign. All four band members write and sing songs on the albums, but the one with the most songs is Chris, so he was in the forefront quite often. I really like their music though (and have all 9 of their studio cds, their live double disc set, and a single cd with some great B sides), so when they come to town again, I'll be there...I just might be alone.

Anyway, I was craving some older Sloan over the past few days and have been going through the cds on my commute home. This morning, I chose one and popped it in for the 40 minute commute. Lo and behold, a song called "I Can Feel It" came on and I smiled widely because I remembered a certain lyric was coming up: "Happy birthday to the best brother in the world." Today is, in fact, my brother Kevin's birthday and I get to see him for lunch. This might not seem like the biggest coincidence in the world, but there were several factors at play. First, I chose the cd with that song on it. Second, the KROQ show I listen to every morning was doing an interview with Radiohead that I didn't feel like listening to, which prompted the rare a.m. cd-listening. Lastly, the half hour span that the cd was on happened to cover that song. So everything lined up just right for me to hear the most pertinent line for December 20th in my entire music collection.

Oh yeah, and it's my friend Jon's birthday too. Happy birthday, dude.

Back to being angry: Just before I got home from Vegas, my mom called me to tell about the Sunday crossword in West Magazine of the LA Times. Each Sunday, I take stabs at the one in the regular part of the paper and the one in that magazine. They're always clever and make me say aloud, "Man I hate those bastards" in a very admiring way. Kinda like how Wes Mantooth feels about Ron Burgundy. Anyway, my mom called to say that this particular puzzle was about...auto-followers. They call them "cliché combos" or "idiomatic married couples", but they're the same thing. In fact, the example they give is this:

"For example, a woman with very little on is never 'minimally clad' or 'skimpily clad' or 'barely clad,' but always 'scantily clad.'"

That's right, they used my number one example of a Class 1 AF as their example. Son a bitch stole my line. I've only had a few minutes to look at the puzzle so far, and I've only found one of the eleven special clues so far. It's pretty good though: "breakneck." Yeah, that's a Class 1 alright, and it pisses me off. I'm very, very tempted to look at the answers so I can start critiquing the "cliché combos," but I have to try to get more on my own first. I'm having a hard time, because "Belgian violinist Eugene" doesn't really help me fill in the boxes.

So this pisses me off on two levels. One, this was my thing. Two, since it's my thing, I should be better at getting the answers. Stupid puzzle makers. What's next, a puzzle on the power of Ralph and FB2K4? I'm watching you, West Magazine. With my furrowed brow.

Words words words

Before I launch into a tirade or two, I inadvertently made up a bad pun while trying to think of a title for today's post: If I put my shirt down on something in an attempt to get the wrinkles out but find that it actually makes it more wrinkled, can I call it an irony board? I met get punched in the face, but yes, I suppose I could call it that.

Anyway, the picture of Steelers' coach Bill Cowher isn't here because some people think he looks like my dad, but because I needed a picture showing consternation and he came to mind. It was way easier to find a picture of him making that face than I thought it would be. In fact, it would be hard to find one of him not making a face like that. Originally, I only had one word thing that I was going to complain about, but now I have two. Depending on when actual work has to start, you might get both today. I can almost feel your excitement from here.

First, there is a phenomenon that I let slide once or twice, but now I'm fed up with. I realize someone is trying to be clever, but clever only counts when it works. I'm talking about people using numbers for letters. I first recall seeing this with the movie Seven, starring Red from Shawshank and Mr. Jolie. Here's what they did:

I remember seeing that and thinking, "Okayyyy, I see what they're trying to do there, but I don't like it." Were there enough contextual clues that I knew what word it was? Sure, but even if that makes it successful, I'm not obligated to like it. Because the 7 doesn't look like a fucking v, ok?

So time went by, and I was pleased to see that the trend hadn't continued. And then a new show was being promoted:

Sure, the number 3 looks like an E...upside down on a calculator. Again, I see what they're trying (especially since the name of the show is Numbers after all), but I think it looks stupid. They could turn it around at least so it looks like the letter it's a placeholder for. That's what The Nine on ABC did, and I'm much happier with their execution:

See? It just looks like a lower-case e if you're not paying attention to get the wordplay. Don't shove a 7 in my face and tell me that I have to use it as a v.

This all came up because I saw a new Adidas ad that asked me if I "believe in 5ive." I'm assuming if you've read this far, you'll probably know how I felt about that new campaign. The thing is, a 5 actually does resemble a letter - AN S! It looks nothing like an F. Let's try something: Can you spot the 5 in the sequence below?

FFFFFFFFF5FFFFFFFFFF

Did you find it? Nicely done, gentle reader. I know the fate of the world doesn't rest on such trivial matters as this, but it still pisses me off. What's next for these wrong-character characters? A 6 looks like a G, 1s could easily be Ls, and 8s have been spelling BOOBLESS on calculators for decades. Those are too accurate though - I'm waiting for that brave marketer to say, "Hey guys, we could use a 2 in the title of our new show, Tomorrow." "Oh," they'll say, "like 2morrow?" "No," he'll reply with an air of damn-I'm-awesome-ness, "we'll use it as the M!"

I hate that guy.

I can't write more now; I'm too fixated on wanting to beat up that TO2ORROW guy. I hate that guy.

Just like a bicycle

...I'm two-tired. Word to the wise, people: if you are coming back Sunday from a couple of days in Vegas, don't schedule anything at 8:30am on Monday. It's just a stupid thing to do. Here's how sleepy I am: my alarm went off this morning. That might not sound like much, but it's the first time it's gone off in over a month. I have some weird time issues, and I wake up before my alarm, completely convinced that it's not going to go off and that will cause the world to end. I fight with myself every morning on whether it's too early to get up or not. Another problem that exacerbates that one is that my half-awake math is horrendous. I'll look at the clock and think, "Oh, I still have 45 minutes before my alarm, but maybe I should get up now anyway." Then, right before I start to sit up, I realize that instead of 45 minutes, I actually have 2 hours and 20 minutes. Yes, it's that bad. Sometimes I even make things up, like "Oh, the 3 in front of those numbers is for how many hours I have left." No, it stands for "3 o-clock" actually. It all makes sense until it doesn't, if that makes sense.

Vegas recap: Lots of fun. I came back losing only $15 or $20 from gambling, so I consider that a victory. After all the drinks at the tables (and tips), paying 20 bucks for hours and hours of card-playing entertainment is a steal. Of course, being paid to play cards is even better, but I can't really complain at all.

In my previous post, I talked about how we now like to have one nicer meal during our Vegas trips. This time, it's a toss-up as to whether that "nicer meal" was Panda Express or the corned beef sandwich I ate at the poker table in MGM. Tough call, especially since they cost about the same. All I know is that I ate so unhealthfully over the weekend that my body made me crave vegetables last night. I ate my wife's leftover salad from lunch as my dinner, and it didn't even occur to me to have a quesadilla, which is a Klein staple.

Anyway, there is a lot more I'd like to write about the trip, but I have to do actual work. Sucks, I know.

Join the blog parade

The comments are coming, the comments are coming! Well, from only one person, but that counts, right? I don't know if he's intentionally trying to prove my point or not, but so far Dave is epitomizing his role as "the contrarian of the group." He's the Javert to my Valjean, following my trail and systematically trying to destroy it. The Gerard to my Kimble. The Hedwig to my Tommy Gnosis. Yeah, I'll stick with that one. Dave's just like Hedwig.

In the immortal words of Priscilla in Not Another Teen Movie, "Oh it's already been brought-en." (I would've spelled it differently, but I don't argue with wikiquote.com.)

This is going to be a relatively short post since I'm only going to be a work for a few hours this morning. No tears though, gentle readers, for this is a happy occasion. Las Vegas, which translates to The Vegas, is a glorious place and will be a good home for me over the next two days. I feel like "Vegas, baby, Vegas" may be the most quoted movie line of the 90s. A lot of people would point to "Show me the money" as their frontrunner. Don't get me wrong, that's said an awful lot. But "V,b,V" is said not only by every single person going to Vegas, but probably said anywhere between 3 and 100 times. Like the humidity in Florida, it's the repetition that'll get ya every time. And the rhythm.

I realized after my post yesterday that talked about our grown-up Vegas trips that I still do two childish things there that probably still make people refer to me as a stupid, drunk kid. First, I have this special edition $5 chip from Imperial Palace. It has the former owner named Ralph on it. If the stories are true, this guy was a horrible person who even collected Nazi memorabilia. So while gambling at IP when Ralph still owned the joint, I used to stand that chip up so he was facing the dealer. "Do well," I'd warn them, "Ralph is watching you." This actually worked for the first few times, so a tradition was born and the legend grew. Now, regardless of the casino, I'll have Ralph with me, waiting in my pocket for me to call upon his power. I was once scoffed at by a dealer who insisted Ralph had no say over the cards. That led to the creation of a song:

"If you doubt the power of Ralph/You're gonna find yourself in a world of hurt."

Sure, it seems ridiculous, but when the tide turned and I started winning, those who had been nay-sayers at my table were suddenly asking to touch the chip, and some even started to sing along. I think it's safe to assume that they wanted to avoid the world of hurt at all costs, and can you blame them? Even though I think the Ralph chip is a true factor in the gambling world, I can understand if some would label that as immature or just plain stupid.

My other "stupid, drunk kid" thing also has a legendary track record. Some years back, I was bored at work and kept putting masking tape around the tip of my index finger. After some repositioning and stylistic changes, it looked like some kind of bandage. The divine inspiration hit: If I wear this on my finger yet still hit the table with that finger to take another card in blackjack, people won't know what to make of it. The dealer will inevitably think, "If that finger's injured, why does he keep hitting it on the table?" And that, my friends, would be my advantage over the dealers. How could they possibly draw to 21 when they're busy contemplating the status of my finger? Needless to say, it worked. Yes, again, people scoffed and asked what happened. My standard response became, "Actually, I'm not legally allowed to discuss it." That got in their heads even more! I'd move it around in a circle and say to the dealer, "It's the circle of life, Magdalena. Don't get caught up in the circle of life." Yes, I know, it's silly. But let me assure you that once again, after a few winning hands, the others at the table start doing the same circle motion they had just been mocking mere minutes earlier.

I learned a lesson as a child: "A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys." The constant stress on the tip of the "bandage" started to cause it to wear, and the inside got nastier every trip. So the sad day eventually came when I was forced to retire what I'd been calling FingerBanger. And introduce FingerBanger 2K4! This newer model blew the original one out of the water. I had steel enforced sides (more specifically, paperclip-enforced sides) and a folded up Post-It note buried at the tip for increased stability. So far the success of the original FB hasn't been replicated, but it's just a matter of time.

So, my grown up Vegas trip starts in a few hours. I'll be there with my buddies Dusty, Dave, Ralph, and FingerBanger 2K4. I'm pretty sure that's all I'll need.

(So much for the relatively short post...)

Think we'll get there by midnight?

"Baby, we're gonna be up five hundy by midnight!" A quality line from a quality flick. A word to the wise though: if you're ever looking for a picture of the Swingers movie poster, don't just type in "Swingers" on Google's image search. Yikes.

So I'm going to Vegas this weekend with two (possibly three) friends. I'm very much looking forward to it, mainly because I don't see these guys as often as I'd like to and it's a chance for us to spend hours and hours being stupid together. Our trips have evolved over the years (as I'll explain), but they're always comprised of three basic elements: drinking, gambling, and ridiculous conversations. Sounds great to me.

From age 21 to 25 or so, our group of guys would go to Vegas two to four times a year. Those trips would be planned a couple of weeks in advance, and we'd get one room regardless of how many of us were going. Sometimes we'd fly, sometimes we'd drive. We'd eat only the least expensive food (when we remembered to eat). I'd drink a lot of Bud Light. I'd fro out my hair, wear "cool" sunglasses and beads, and turn to complete strangers to ask if they could "dig it."

My first two or three trips were mainly spent at nickel or (if I felt bold) quarter video poker machines, and I vaguely recall my face hitting one of them when my blood alcohol level defeated the part of my brain in charge of muscle control.

I gradually worked my confidence up to playing five dollar blackjack when we could find it and a lot of Let it Ride, which really wasn't my fault. You see, the first time I played it, I won about $750 on two hands within 15 minutes. Then on a cruise ship with my wife, I won over $800 within about 10 minutes. I was obviously hooked, and even though I've only lost at that game for the past three or four years, it still calls to me.

Our recent trips have been about once a year, and sometimes prompted only because one of us is getting married. Bill Simmons of espn.com talks about how great it is to see an email from a friend with the subject "Vegas?" I couldn't agree more. Someone will start that email, and then we'll have a reservation months later. As we now have actual lives, a lot of times aren't good for us and it takes that long to find a date to build around. It's always worth it though. We drive every time, and if there are more than five people, we may even get a second room. We play blackjack at $10 or $15 tables. When really crowded, I've been known to sit at a $25 for a little while. We play poker often, and our inside jokes bug other tablemates enough that we've been threatened. I make some sports wagers, including a couple parlays from time to time, and even sit and watch the games sometimes instead of only being at the tables.

I still get my drink on, but it's rare to get to the point where I feel like I'm floating to the bathroom instead of walking. I'll still have some Bud Lights, but more often it's a Captain Morgan and Coke or a Bailey's and coffee. We try to have one nice meal per trip, preferably some big steaks and big glasses of red wine. We answer work emails on our phones and (gasp) actuall try to get some sleep sometimes. Basically, our trips have grown up a little as we have. People probably refer to us as "those weird drunk guys" instead of "those stupid drunk kids," and I think that's an important distinction.

Regardless of the changes from early 20s to late 20s and beyond (Dusty), I love these trips. I still have some of that 21 year-old in me, and while he's dormant most of the year, it's great to get reacquainted from time to time. I know that once we start having kids and getting even older, Vegas will happen less and less frequently. So when I got that "Vegas?" email months ago from Dusty, I knew it might be the last of its kind for a while. Wish me luck today and tomorrow getting work done, because I have hours of stupid conversation waiting for me.

Near miss

Yesterday, my office held its annual Christmas party at a wonderful facility for people and families living with AIDS. It's an amazing place, and I'm proud to say that I'm even remotely involved in something that gives so many people the resources and the hope they need.

In the morning, I heard rumblings in the office in regards to "Who is going to play Santa Claus tonight?" Of course, my first reaction was, "Aw hell no!" Someone who used to work here had done it for years. Last year (my first year with the company), I was out of town when the party happened and one of my boss's friends played Santa. My boss wasn't in yet, so I was hoping that either he or his friend would be willing to step up and do this. I wrote my wife an email saying that I may have to do this, but I'm fighting it all the way. Her reply wasn't exactly filled with the empathy I was expecting: "Make sure you get a picture! Oh, my skinny, Jewish Santa!" Thanks, honey.

I had two problems with this whole thing: It's not that I don't like kids, because I do. I especially like happy kids, which is what they'd be while receiving presents, most likely. Problem number one is that I just don't feel that I have the personality necessary for someone playing Santa Claus. I'm not jolly; in fact, I'm not even very animated. I'm a low key and often monotone guy, especially in situations where I don't know most of the people. I'd be very uncomfortable having to walk in with a big "Ho ho ho" and "Merrrrrrrry Christmas!"

Problem number two is that I didn't want to lie to the kids. I asked my co-worker Rob, "If they ask me if I'm the real Santa, can I tell them that I'm his good friend and standing in for him since this is a busy time of year?" He said no, I had to say that I was the real Santa. Not only that, I'd probably have to ask them what they wanted for Christmas, even though I'd have zero power in making that happen. What if they asked me point blank whether I was bringing them the bike they want? What if they asked me specific details about the letter they mailed me? I was getting less and less willing to step in, because these kids have it hard enough without some fake Santa's empty promises.

(A lesser problem number three is that I didn't want to stay too long at the party since I'd have an hour-long drive home. I had a feeling that Santa doesn't just drop in and out, despite his obviously busy schedule.)

As the day went on, it sounded like it was between me and no one, with me as the odds-on favorite. Then, a few minutes before we were leaving, I casually said to my boss, "Um, there's the Santa suit over there." "Are you going to be wearing that?" he asked. "Only if you tell me I have to," I replied. "No, that's ok," he said, "Mrs. Claus will be there and that'll be enough." Whew!

Naturally, I was very relieved to hear that and drove over to the party with the suit still on a desk at work. When I arrived, I heard a few people asking who was playing Santa. I have to admit that I was a little embarrassed when I saw their disappointment that there wasn't going to be one. But they were grown-ups, as long as the kids didn't cry when they heard the news, I'd be ok with it. Mrs. Claus was there, and she was making the kids happy. I heard her explain to one kid that Santa was at another house right then but she was happy to hand out presents. The kid seemed fine with it, so I'm doing ok right now.

Should I have just sucked it up, ignored how uncomfortable the setting was, lied to the kids, and gone for it? Maybe. It's a very fair argument to say that the happiness of about a dozen kids is more important that one man's comfort level. But my boss said I didn't have to, and I happily obeyed. My question to you, Gentle Readers, is this: On a scale of 1 to 10, how big of an asshole was I yesterday?

Breaking ground

Before I get to anything else, you may be wondering what I'm going to write about Nick Nolte today that warrants his infamous mug shot as the picture of the day. Absolutely nothing. It's just a fantastic picture. I hope it brightens your day, if for no other reason than you look better than that right now. You have to.

A few weeks ago, a guy who regularly comes into the office to sell snacks was here with an assortment of holiday cookie tins. My boss asked if I wanted one, and I said I did, but only to give back to him as a Christmas present on some undisclosed date when he's forgotten about it. He thought that was a funny idea and proceeded to buy a tin for me/him. I went online and bought him a t-shirt from Ampu Tees (great name) for Festivus so he would get something that he didn't buy himself. It lists the three important aspects of Festivus (the pole, the feats of strength, and the airing of grievances) and I think he'll appreciate it. Anyway, I decided that today would be the day to give him his two presents. So when I arrived this morning (about an hour before anyone else gets here, which enables me to do things like write words on a weblog), I looked around for the wrapping paper. Then the light bulb went off.

We have a client who had provided us with 17 boxes full of bikini-clad girly wall calendars. The thought was that they would be a giveaway as part of a campaign, but as 2006's end drew nearer, we realized that it didn't make that much sense anymore. I've been asking him for months if I can throw the calendars away but have never gotten a straight answer. With about 2 weeks left of 2006, I took it upon myself to wrap his tin of cookies and his t-shirt in pages from the calendars. The lady on June's page has one hell of an ass, so that's on the top of the gift naturally. He'll be in soon and surely get a kick out of that. I just hope he's forgotten about the tin he bought.

As I was wrapping the presents, I thought to myself, "This is the first time I've used nearly-naked women on calendar pages to wrap a gift for someone that he purchased for himself while I'm wearing a tie. I wonder if anyone has ever done that combination of things before." That, in essence, is today's topic: Doing things for the first time in the history of mankind. I know, that's a very high bar, but it may be easier than you think.

Years ago, Dusty and I were driving from New Mexico to Los Angeles. One of us said something strange, then followed with, "Wow, I don't think I've ever said that sentence before." We spent the next few hours trying to come up with phrases that had possibly never been uttered. Ever. For example, "Me think big woman go far far chopsticks, you silly James Worthy rabbit." Is it nonsense? Absolutely. But was it the first time since the creation of the English language that those words were put together in that order? Probably, and that's awesome. We created something unique in the universe, and we were proud of that. Mock away, gentle reader, but I'd like to know what you've done recently that has never been done in the history of mankind.

Now I know some of you might think it's easy to string nonsense together to form a unique sentence, and you've got a point. So I'm going to attempt right now to create a logical, grammatically correct sentence that has never been created before. "Please pardon the shit stains on my face and neck, Mr. President, but one can only open so many Jell-O Pudding Cups with his teeth before he's bound to run into one filled with feces." Booyah Kasha!

Have a unique and strangely-fulfilling day.

Numb skull

And numb mouth to match. Not even Rick Monday could save me from this Monday (and he's good at saving things too). At 7:00 in the morning, I went back to the dentist this morning for my cleaning and filling. As I wrote to my wife, "I had a Russian woman dentist with the beside manner of...a Russian woman." She barked things out to me throughout the procedure as if she were in charge of this mission and she'd be damned if some kid from America was going to blow it for her. "Head down." "Bite!" "Open more!" "Floss better." Since she passed dental school, I'm pretty sure she has the ability to say more than two words at a time, but after an hour with her, I can't say for sure. I'm having some oatmeal now, but I still feel like I have three cheeks on top of each other on the right side of my face. Let's hope this wears off by the time I want to eat actual food.

So, we went to Twilight's birthday party with the karaoke aspects I'd been worrying about. As it turns out, the singing set up was different than I'd imagined, and we're all happier for it. Instead of one person with a mic up at the front of the room, there were three mics being passed around the seated guests. This led to a lot of group songs and less of the pressure I'd put on myself. "Piano Man" by Billy Joel was a big hit, with tipsy folk belting it out loud and proud. I sang along on a few, but only truly co-starred in one. First, allow me to set the scene a little more. I would estimate that 80% was gay. Therefore, almost the entire Rent soundtrack got played (including one duet twice in a row for some reason - there was almost a gay-off to decide who was better). So when time came for me to "straight it up", my fellow breeder Dusty and I performed a lovely duet of Dr. Dre's "Gin and Juice." Nothing changes the flow of a party quite like "We gonna smoke an ounce of this/G's up, ho's down while you muthafuckers bounce to this" and "So turn out the lights and close the door/But for what? We don't love them ho's." We yelled "Bee-otch" a few times when the screen told us to, and Dusty took the liberty of changing "Compton" to "Encino" in one of the lines.

After the applause died down, one of the party guests announced that there was too much misogyny in that song and that the party needed a change. Naturally, she opted for a Dixie Chicks song about killing a man who either abused or sexually assaulted the protagonist. I didn't hear all of the lyrics, but I'm sure it undid the ill will that the Straight Posse brought to the party. Final score: Murder 1, Bee-otch 0.

Wimpiest sentence I've written all month: I'm sore from playing Nintendo. Dave bought the Nintendo Wii, and after swinging the controller violently to mimic the motions in the tennis, golf, baseball, and bowling games, my body thinks I actually played them. On one hand, it's really cool to have the system work like that. I actually was doing front-hands and back-hands in the tennis game to hit the ball. On the other, when I play a video game, it's not because I want exercise. I want a system so I can sit and be mentally stimulated for a while, not stand and work out. It's a cool system, and I definitely want to see what it's like with other games, but it's not one I walked away from saying "I have to have that."

I just dug my fingernail into my gums, and I officially have some feeling back now. I probably should've tried that a different way that wouldn't result in pain. Live and learn, eh?

Time to do actual work now. Sucky. Good luck with the rest of the Monday, everyone.

Banana fana fo

Today is my friend Twilight's birthday (and as I found out while sorting through e-cards this morning, it's also Imagine Day to honor the brilliance of John Lennon on the anniversary of his murder). Whenever I first mention Twilight to people, their first question is, "Is that her real name?" Yes it is. Her last name was Schroeder when I met her, and that never seemed to fit well to me. The first name is a soft, hippie-ish name that conjures up images of nature, while the last name was a more abrasive German name that makes me think up images of harsh winters, animal pelts, metal mugs, and barely adequate heat output from a wood-burning oven. Solid name though.

Anyway, before Twilight married our good friend Dave, she was debating whether to take his last name of Robin or stick with Schroeder. I thought those two names matched up a lot better than the original two, but she was worried that Twilight Robin sounded like a porn star. "It doesn't sound like a porn star," I reassured her. "Much more like a porn actress still working her way up the ranks."

As the wedding date got closer, she decided that she would make the change and is now pleased with the decision. I think it sounds cool, and hope to actually spot a robin in the twilight sometime so I can comment on it and make everyone bust up laughing. (Yes, in my version of the story, that joke would bring the house down. Don't bring logic to my fantasy world.)

So in thinking about Twilight Robin on her birthday, I got to thinking about when we used to create our own porn names and soap opera names from tried and true formulas passed down from generation to generation. I'm certain that there are variations, but here's what I remember:

(Name of family pet) + (Mother's maiden name) = Porn Name

and

(Middle name) + (Street you have lived on) = Soap Opera Name

I think people should be allowed to choose what pet name and what street name sound best rather than limiting it to "first pet" or "street you grew up on." Therefore, you would be able to catch me in "Busty Cheerleaders 7" as Snowball Eisenberg. That rocks. Similarly, I'll be starring on the telenovela "Se Prohibe Amar" as Todd Gaviota. Or Todd Figueroa. Or Todd Camino del Sur. I hope to meet someone someday whose soap opera name would be Frank Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard.

My friend Greg's porn name would be Bootsy Feldman, while Dusty would be Snappy Young. I think my friend Scott would be Fonzie Horowitz, but I have to double check that. Regardless, I'm glad I thought of this today - it had been too long since I thought of my friends having sex on film for money. Thanks, Twilight!

Have a great weekend everybody.

Molar Imperatives

I have a dentist appointment in about an hour, and it's not my favorite thing in the world. It's always better than I remember though. I was reminded of this fact by myself a few years ago. Allow me to explain: I got a postcard in the mail from my dentist telling me that it had been six months and I needed to call to schedule another cleaning. On the postcard, in my handwriting, it read, "It's actually not that bad! Love, You." I was confused at first, but then remembered the dentist asking me to write my address on that postcard before I left the previous appointment. I guess I took that opportunity to tell Future Peter that he should just suck it up and go. And you know what? It worked; I set up another cleaning.

This time is different though. This time it's a new dentist, and it's been a lot longer between cleanings than it should. Like four times as long. Sorry Mom. But I'm a big boy, so I'm gonna go in there, act like a man, and take whatever the doc's got for me. My wife tells me that today will probably just be x-rays and a "consultation" and that I'll be scheduling a cleaning for later. That's good and bad news. On one hand, I won't be upset to get in and out with as little scraping and spitting as possible. On the other, that means I'll need to psych myself up for another one of these visits very soon.

As I'm sure is the case with almost everyone, going to the dentist reminds me Advance Placement U.S. Government in high school. What? I'm alone in this? Weird. Here's a long and unimportant story as to why:

I enjoyed certain aspects of high school. I was never one of those kids who celebrated like he won the World Series when the final bell rang on the last day of the year. I liked seeing my friends every day, and nerdy as it sounds, I enjoyed the learning process that took place in some of my classes. My classes though, even the ones I liked most, were often a little less stimulating than I needed. So my friend Dusty and I would often come up with ways to make things a little more interesting to us, and I know how lame this is going to sound even before I type it. We'd make little games up to occupy our minds.

One such game involved little gestures for everytime certain students' names were said aloud. (Sidenote: There's a wonderful, all-time great story about this in a Spanish class that I'll hopefully get to address at a later date. It deserves its own post because it's stuck with all of us to this day.) These actions weren't meant to be distractions or for anyone else to notice, but rather a way for Dusty and me to add a more interactive element to the class. For example, there was one student who would very haughtily take off his glasses with one hand before making a point, as if to emphasize how very intellingent he was. So everytime anyone said his name aloud in the class, Dusty and I would casually scratch one temple or loosely mimic his defining action. Our friend Scott was on the varsity basketball team, so his name made us lightly tap the desk in reference to dribbling a ball. Yes, I know, we were such bad asses. The most convoluted of these actions (and we probably got to about 20 of them in the class of 30ish) was for a quieter guy named Dennis. Dusty asked me what we should do for his name, and I glanced at my watch. Why? Because Dennis sounds a little like "dentist", and according to the old and stupid joke, one goes to the dentist at 2:30 since it sounds like "tooth-hurty." He agreed, and from that day on until the end of our illustrious high school careers, I checked the time every time Dennis' name was uttered.

I t0ld you it was a lame story. Regardless, I think of that whenever I'm going to the dentist. Maybe you will too now, memory stealer.

UPDATE: Some good news, some not-as-good. The dentist was very nice, and he not only complimented my oral hygeine and understanding of what one must do to have a healthy mouth, but he was very taken by my philosophy on golf ("Yes, it's frustrating, but it's a beautiful place to be frustrated."). The not-as-good news is that I have to go back Monday morning for the cleaning, so I wasn't able to get it all done at once. Also, I have a small cavity that needs a filling (insert sexual joke here). So, even though I have to go in again and will require some unenjoyable drilling, at least the people are nice.

I somehow forgot to mention it earlier, but my mom's been told by her dentist that she has "perfect home dental hygeine." I know this verbatim because she's very proud of that, and rightfully so. But has her dentist ever complimented her on how she perceives the game of golf? We'll call it a draw.

Auto-followers

I admit that I'm somewhat of a word nerd (have ya heard?), which will come as no surprise to those who know me. I dabble in puns and have a hard time holding them back, regardless of how cringe-inducing they may be. I'm also fascinated by language and its oddities. I think about things, get stuck thinking about them, then subject my friends and relatives to these (usually completely unimportant) ruminations.

There is one language train of thought though that has captured people's interest much more than any other: Auto-followers. I don't remember exactly how or when this started, but the basic premise is that there are certain words that are only used to preceed other specific words. That is, they have "auto-followers" after being uttered. (Sidenote: Somewhere along the process, we incorrectly started referring to the first words as "auto-followers", and even though that doesn't make sense, tradition trumps accuracy in this case. I don't say that often, trust me.) Every once in a while, a friend will ask me to call upon the list of auto-followers (AFs from here on out) and I have a hard time remembering more than two or three. It's been a group effort from the onset, but I'm taking the lead and using this space to officially get the AFs down somewhere for future reference.

One of the best examples, and possibly the one that started the whole trend, is "scantily." The beauty of true AFs is that I don't need to tell you what word comes after it. I can't even think of an example of how else is could be used, even though it never is. "The hole in the ground was scantily covered by leaves" is the closest I can come up with right now, but even that sounds pretty off to me.

I will call "scantily" a Class 1 AF, meaning the truest of the true to me and those who have discussed this lingual phenomenon with me. Class 2 AFs would be ones that definitely lead you to a thematic answer, but the actual word could change. For example, I normally think of "torrential" as a Class 1 AF, but I've had people reply with both "downpour" and simply "rain." Even though it's clearly "downpour" to me, my family, and several friends, since not everyone replies with that, I'm making it a Class 2. Same family of response, but not the same exact word.

Another Class 2 AF is "noxious." Again, I thought this was a Class 1 until a few people replied with "odors" instead of my automatic "fumes" response. Definitely the same idea, but not universal enough for the lofty Class 1 status.

Here is a short list of AFs that I believe to be Class 1:

Scantily
Furtive
Hermetically
Crotchless
Furrowed
Corrugated

(Another sidenote: My friend Dave likes to be the contrarian of the group at times, so when asked about "crotchless" years ago in college, he replied, "Roommate!" and pointed to our roommate Greg. I don't think that's enough evidence to warrant a Class 2 ranking.)

AFs are hard to come by. People often think they've found one, only to be rebuffed at their first attempt to elicit a response. For example, "pearly" seems good on the surface. People usually think of a word immediately, but that word could be either "white" or "gates." Since those words aren't related, I think that takes "pearly" out of the discussion completely.

The rest of the ones accumulated over the years are not yet classified. Some I believe to be quite true, but I need more input before being more certain. If anyone's reading this, please comment on what you think about the listed ones, add your own if you think of any, and let the fun with words begin.

Categorically
Supple (if not for "Pinball Wizard" by The Who, I think we'd have a Class 1 here)
Vehicular (I'm sure in legalese there are several uses for that word, but I think of one)
Mitigating
Irreparable
Duly

Have at it, gentle readers.

A talking muffin!

My boss told me a joke a few months ago: "Two muffins are in an oven. One says, 'Hey, is it hot in here?' And the other says, 'Holy crap, a talking muffin!'" Granted, that's not a very funny joke. However, it's impacted my life: since then, I can't say "Holy crap!" without wanting to follow it up with "a talking muffin!" Needless to say, that phrase popped into my head many, many times as I watched UCLA beat USC on Saturday. Not only was that the biggest football win for the Bruins in years while it simultaneously destroyed the hopes of their arch rival, but I called it on Friday in this space. Even as I was typing it, I thought, "Uh oh, you probably can't go back and edit this post afterwards without being a coward and sticking to your guns." Since UCLA won though, I didn't have to reach that moral crossroads.

It was a great sports day for me on Saturday. I went to the football-less UCSB, but I've always been a fan of UCLA since my mom, aunt, uncle, two cousins, mother-in-law, and father-in-law went there. Even if the Trojans win the next three national championships and the Bruins suck those years, they'll always be able to point to "that time when..."
And then, watching my Lakers beat up on the suddenly hapless Clippers topped it all off. It's a very rare day indeed when I'm on the right side of two LA-LA rivalries.

So yes, you may now revel in my truly special pre-cog ability.

More later, I hope.

Beating the odds

Another entry into the blogosphere. In the biggest upset since UCLA spoiling the Trojans shot at another national championship, I'm here with more musings. (By the way, that football game is tomorrow, so feel free to reflect upon my sports pre-cog ability as something "truly special.")

Here's what's on my mind right now: My friend Twilight is having a birthday party in a week. They're apparently making karaoke a component of the party and have asked people for requests of what they'd like to see on the song menu. I've done karaoke four times in my life. Three of them were pretty standard:

• I sang "Paperback Writer" by the Beatles with a friend at a bar mitzvah when I was 13


• "When Doves Cry" by Prince with my buddy Scott at a Sweet Sixteen when I was 16


• A loungy version of "Like a Virgin" with my brother when I was probably 20 for an audience of maybe 5 people

The fourth was not so standard, and since I had the most fun with it and got better reviews, it's skewed the way I've viewed karaoke ever since. My friend Jon and I (notice I never do this alone) sang "Burning Down the House" in gibberish. All made up words except for "burning down the house" and "fight fire with fire." It was great - the confused looks from people who couldn't understand what we were doing ("The words are right there on the screen!") were priceless. Sure, I sounded a bit like the Swedish Chef, but whose gibberish doesn't?

(Sidenote: Should I be capitalizing 'gibberish'? I know it's a made up language, but it's still a language. Does one write 'Pig Latin'? Probably, because 'latin' looks weird. I'm starting a movement on this. Plenty of good seats still available on the bandwagon.)

So here are my options: I can either skip the karaoke part all together - the leader in the clubhouse right now - and just watch others ham it up, find a good and funny song that I can "sing" normally without having to have any kind of singing voice, or find a song that I can do something special with like the BDtH example.

Option 2 is slightly difficult. I can maybe get my one of my friends to sing "If I Had $1,000,000" by Barenaked Ladies with me. I could sing "Punkrock Girl" by the Dead Milkmen quite easily. Or...nope, that's all I've got right now.

Option 3 is super difficult. I don't want to do BDtH again, even though I have some ideas on how to make it better (i.e. audience participation). I could do a stalker version of Richard Marx's "Right Here Waiting" to leave everyone with that creepy feeling. Nothing evokes that better that saying "I will be right here waiting for you" with a clenched jaw and wide eyes. That would get old a third of the way through it though.

That's where I am right now. Mentally. Physically, I'm at work and have to start doing actual work. Messed up priorities, I know. So, I'd ask for advice, but that would require people reading this...that's a tricky one. Well, they don't call me Balls-Out Natalie for nothing. Any advice?

Much like baby fish mouth...

Blogging is sweeping the nation. So, one can either sit idly by and be content to read other people's thoughts or join the masses. I choose the latter, dear sirs and madams.

What will become of this space in "the internets"? More than likely, nothing at all. In fact, if this isn't the only post on this blog, I've already exceeded my expectations.

I included a picture of my dog Hallie, mainly because I'm stalling. I don't know what I want all of this to be about. It can be full of random observations and thoughts (I went to the bathroom a few minutes ago, and there was a brand new urinal cake there. It was so gratifying to be the first one to pee on this object that I contemplated stopping mid-pee and moving over to the next urinal to get that one too. I didn't though, because the thought of someone walking in just as I'm switching urinals would've been hard to explain. And then, whenever I saw that person in the future, he'd say hello, but I'd know that he was really thinking, "There's that guy who was walking around the bathroom with his junk out." No one wants that.).

It could be about sports, of which I'm fairly knowledgeable (I can't get over how young the Lakers are. Ignoring the rooks/sophs - Bynum, Farmar, and Turiaf - who all show a great amount of promise, the "veterans" of Kobe and Odom are still 28 and 27, respectively. For comparison sake, Michael Jordan was 28 when he won his first of six titles. Kobe is about to hit his prime, as ridunkulous as that sounds. With more time in the Triangle Offense and the young guys locked into rookie contracts with team options, this could easily be the elite team of the West for the next 3-4 years. Unless they trade Bynum and Odom for KG, then all bets are off.).

I don't know. I think I'll end this first (only?) post now and see what happens. I'd invite comments, but I first have to decide if I'm going to tell anyone about this.