Your Turn

Here's the deal folks. All of us here who bring you DLOG on a near daily basis (me) are going on vacation, or at least are taking the next week and a half off. As such, it's going to get pretty quiet around here. I will, however, still receive DLOG email which is linked at the bottom.

Why do you care? Well, there are now a handful of people who read this blog somewhat regularly, and I'm interested in what you're here for. Do you read it for the humor? The rants? The potty jokes? (I know that's why I would come here.) Are you looking for personal insight into my life? Do you just need to kill a minute and a half, and that's how long it takes to read today's post? Let me know. Seriously.

I started this mess almost a year ago, in part to get things out of my head, and in part just as an excuse to write. Both have worked out fairly well, but since I do keep track of whether or not people actually read it, I would like to keep it interesting. If you want to see something else here, let me know. If there is something you'd rather not see here anymore, let me know that too. If there is some topic I've missed, point it out. Heck, if there's something you want to know about, but are too lazy to look up yourself, let me know.

Now, do I expect a big response from this? Probably not. In fact, my comments section has all but gone silent, and to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever used the email link at the bottom of the page. If that's the way this goes, so be it. I will continue rambling on in the way I've come to. Hopefully, some of you will continue reading about it.

Seriously, I Thought a Brazillian Was Some Kind Of Drink

This weekend found me in a position I've been in several times throughout my life - sitting amongst a pile of my newly shorn hair. It was about this time last year I decided I was growing it out again, and with the reluctant approval of my lovely wife...well, I didn't really do anything but stop getting haircuts so often. It's not like growing your hair out takes work.

Anyway, it had gotten long enough to officially be long, and as usual, I was already sick of how I looked. The idea of cutting it short had rumbled around my brain for a few weeks, but I kept pushing it back, if for no other reason that it had been a damned year. Growing it out doesn't take work, but it definitely takes time. So each time I though about cutting it, I'd reconsider and think to myself, "Let's give it another month and see how it looks".

As part of our to-do list, the Moose and I went in for haircuts this weekend. I just got mine trimmed and layered. I have no idea what it means to have your hair layered, but the wife said it needed it, and I passed that along to the lady cutting my hair as if I knew what I was talking about. She took an inch or so off the back, layered it (she could have just been opening and closing the scissors in the air for all I know), and said we were good. My lovely wife told me it looked better, and I was happy.

So I pay for our new quaffs, and having finished paying I go to collect the family from the waiting area. Much to my dismay, I find my wife and daughter going through a book of men's hairstyles discussing what would look good on daddy. I'm not typically one to pick up on hints that aren't stapled to my forehead, but the idea that maybe my new do was somehow less than pleasing to my good lady wife bothered me immensely. As I've probably mentioned before, I pretty much have one person in the world I have to impress as far as looks are concerned, so when I feel like I'm blowing that it doesn't sit right with me.

After some measure of badgering on my part, it was conveyed to me that a shorter cut would have been preferred, and since I had been considering it anyway, I went back the next day to have the job completed. The only catch is that now I have to remember how to style my hair, a task made unnecessary when it was longer. Well, that and my ears are cold. Still, it's all worth it if my lovely wife finds it more attractive, and it additionally fulfills my need to be constantly changing some part of my physical appearance.

I'm just glad she stopped dropping hints about the bikini wax - I am not going through that again.

At Least I Already Have A Bunch Of Their Change

Living in Michigan, I've been paying close attention to the news regarding the rotten state of the automotive industry. I have to. Not only do I know people who will be affected by the shutdown of the big three, but part of me believes that the government will cut its losses and sell Michigan to Canada when it happens, and it drives me a little crazy when people say "aboot".

Well, I'm not politically savvy enough to completely understand all of what's going on here, but last night I made a couple of helpful observations for my friends in the industry. It may be too late for this to help all of you, but those left standing might take note. It's regarding your advertising, which I made the mistake of not muting last night when it interrupted Stephen Colbert.

First, the commercial I was watching made a big thing about some award the car had just won. That's fine. You accomplish something, go on with your bad self and brag it up. What I take issue with was that the award for best resale value 2009. I'm not sure if you think we're stupid, or your claiming to be psycic, but trying to sell your cars by claiming that people from the future have declared it the best car, again, in the future is stretching things a bit far, don't you think. Why not just start bragging about the new flux capacitor design and the car's ability to fly while your at it.

Okay, obviously I'm kidding with that one, since the automotive industry has an odd habit of labeling their cars a year in advance, which frankly has always irritated the hell out of me, but here's the more serious observation. They pinned onto the commercial that there is also a huge deal going on right now where "the price on the tag is the price you pay". So the tag says it's a thirty thousand dollar car, and you pay thirty thousand dollars. Huh.

Now, you'll have to excuse me if I'm slightly underwhelmed with this, but if I understand this correctly, then what you're claiming is that the big special of the week is that for a limited time, your cars will be sold like almost every other product in the known world. Maybe I don't buy enough cars (I'm sure the automotive industry would say so), but can someone explain why this is a big deal? I mean, if I went to buy a head of lettuce or a video game, and there was a big sign saying "Special today - all price tags are accurate", I'm thinking I'd be unimpressed. Unfortunately, same thing applies to cars.

So yeah, if any of you are left standing in 2009, and I really hope you are (I actually drive an American car, and I like the idea of being able to get parts for it and whatnot), maybe this information will be useful. I'm sorry I can't offer more advice, but let's be honest. These are tough times, and we all need to watch our own backs, and bank accounts, for the moment.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go read up on parliamentary government and start practicing my moose calls, eh.

Dude, I Don't Know How To Say This, But You Smell Delicious

I'm a man who has reached the point in my life where I no longer feel the need to wear cologne. In my youth, I would regularly douse myself in various manly scents in an effort to attract the opposite sex. Having snared myself a wonderful bride, I have lapsed in this, deciding instead to go with the ever popular "clean". It's worked so far as I can tell.

Anyway, having left the scene, I don't pay a lot of attention to new colognes. I've ignored the whole Axe Effect. I disregard celebrity colognes, only pausing to note that Antonio Banderas came out with a cologne and all I could do was wonder if it smelled like Melanie Griffith. Basically, I don't care.

Then the advertisers of the world proved that everyone can be made curious with this. This is a delicious combination of fascinating and creepy, and it's apparently centered around a new scent for men (I think). Someone has finally wedded the American fascination with vanity with the American fascination with food.

If I'm reading this right, someone has made a cologne that smells like a Whopper.

Why a cologne though? I know they say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but do women get turned on by the aroma of grilling meat? I'm guessing not, but maybe I'm wrong. Either way, it seems like a perfume would have been a better choice.

Forgetting the gender bias for a moment though, is there really a crowd of people in the world who are sitting around thinking, "Gee, my life would feel so much more complete if I could smell like meat of some kind". If so, I suppose this product would give them a healthy alternative to hanging around with cannibals. So, you know, it's got that going for it I guess.

My point here is that once in a while the world throws a product out there that makes me sit back and realize that maybe I don't know people as well as I think I do. I mean, I never would have dreamed that such a thing would make it past the realm of humor, but there you go. So yeah, while I'm not running out to buy myself any of this (I'm thinking that my lovely wife, being a vegetarian, would be less than thrilled at the prospect of me smelling like a burger), it's interesting to me that there are those out there who will undoubtedly not only purchase, but actually wear such a thing.

To them, may I recommend avoiding the kennels.

If Part Of It Is Removed, Do You Call It a Semicolon?

Let's start today by pointing out that yesterday, I said I wanted enough snow to make it look Christmassy. One day later, we have exactly enough snow to make it look Christmassy, and no more. Conclusion: I may have super powers. I'll keep you posted on that.

Anyway, a couple of interesting news tidbits today regarding my musical companion, the colon. First, it has been discovered that colonoscopy's are not as effective as once thought. Basically, the view is limited to mostly the left side of the colon, resulting in things being missed on the right.

Now, as you may or may not recall, I actually went through that recently. It wasn't the worst thing in the world (that would be eating Quest Doritos), but I wouldn't exactly jump at the chance to go through it again. So the idea that something may have been missed based on alignment is a wee bit unnerving.

Anyway, the other news item, and the one I enjoy more, is that new research shows that smoking increases the risk of colon cancer. Aside from the obvious question (Are the smokers doing it wrong?), I'm once again forced to wonder why smoking continues to even be legal. I mean, we continue to outlaw marijuana, which has proved to have genuine medical benefits, but tobacco, which accomplished nothing but addiction and various flavors of cancer runs free. Bizarre.

On the bright side, now crack dealers can point out that there is more than one addictive substance that can be associated with your butt, helping sales in a struggling economy.

Ah, If I Could Only Grow Mutton Chops

Well, it's just over one week to Christmas, and the snow is gone. As someone who has a love/hate relationship with snow, I just don't know how to feel about this. Normally, any lack of snow is a good thing in my book, but I'm a traditionalist, and thanks to a lifetime of Michigan weather (not to mention an affinity for Bing Crosby), I've come to expect snow on two days of the year - Christmas and it's eve.

Most of the time, I see snow, along with most of winter, as a nuisance. I was most prepared to abandon my current location at one point, even eyeballing Arizona. Somehow, though, I always remain here in a place that's known for things like skiing. Dude, strapping two pieces of thin wood to your feet and then seeing how fast you can go down a mountain. No thankee, sai.

As far as I'm concerned, winter and snow serve one purpose - look pretty. Snow is lovely so long as it can be used as an excuse for sitting inside on a Sunday afternoon, sipping cocoa and watching movies. Once you expect me to actually venture out into it, then we have an issue. I don't like being cold even a little bit, and the only detrimental effect of not maintaining my butterball figure is that I no longer have the protective layers of fatty tissue to harden me against the cruel winters. (Seriously, I used to walk to class in an unbuttoned jacket when it was around zero degree Fahrenheit, arrive to class sweating, and still convince myself that I wasn't that out of shape. Ah, denial is a powerful thing.)

As we edge closer to Christmas, though, I'm a little distraught at the lack of snowy goodness in my yard. Over on this side of the state (towards the thumb), it was raining yesterday. As a result, our yard is officially snow free today. It's sunny outside, so I don't see that changing today anyway.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not willing another blizzard like last year into existence (although if I could, I would will it to appear in Texas, just because it's funny reading about wide spread chaos being caused over a half inch of snow). I just want enough to cover the ground so I can continue towards my goal of the perfect picturesque Christmas scene. Fireplace burning. Hot coffee spiked with egg nog. My loving family surrounding me, children excitedly asking me if it's time to open their gifts in their adorable British accents.

What? I can't be the only person whose Christmas ideal has been shaped from years of A Christmas Carol.

This Must Have Developed Since I Gave Up Winged Vigilantism

Today, we get to have an educational moment here at DLOG, for today we get to learn a new word. Today's word is acrophobia. Acrophobia, according to Wikipedia (for people too lazy to click a link) "is an extreme or irrational fear of heights". Why are we discussing it here?

'Cause I got it.

Oh I haven't been to a doctor for diagnosis or anything, standing firm on my policy of only seeing doctors for ailments that are visible from across the street, but I've got it. I know because this weekend I had to do a simple task that took way longer than it should have. We had some rotted wood replace on a second floor window, but didn't have it painted yet. Well, it had been a few weeks, and we were having a cookie decorating party for the Princess, so my lovely wife asked me to take care if of it. I'm not handy, but I know my way around a paintbrush, so I stepped up.

Well, sort of. While everyone else went to gymnastics, I dragged the 20 foot ladder outside and tried to get it against the house in an appropriate manner. Succeeding at that, I got myself an old peanut butter jar full of paint, a brush, stuffed both in my pockets, and climbed up the ladder. About half way up, I just stopped, hung out for a minute, and then climbed back down.

I made the pretense of checking that it was sturdy enough, adjusting the ladder a bit. Then I started climbing again. This time I made it to the top of the porch roof, a whopping ten feet in the air maybe, before I froze up. Now, it's hard to explain how strange this was for me. I knew I wasn't very far off of the ground. I looked down, and it didn't even look that far off the ground. Nonetheless, I literally couldn't make myself go further. So, once again I backed down, and went inside for a minute to gather myself.

Keep in mind, dear reader, that my glorified sense of importance makes this all the worse, as the whole time I'm doing this I'm imagining the neighbors looking out the windows, trying to figure out why I keep climbing the ladder and then coming back down. So far I'm okay, as the first one was poor ladder setup, and the second trip would probably be viewed as forgetting some needed item. This time, though, I had to make it, lest they quietly begin snickering to themselves.

So, out I go. I climb the ladder, and this time make it to my goal. Well, almost anyway. See, I got high enough on the ladder to reach the top of the area to be painted, so we were all good there. The only issue was that I couldn't make myself get the paint out. I'm literally standing at the top of this ladder (again, maybe a whole 15-17 feet of the ground now), and I'm saying to myself, "Dude, just reach into your coat pocket, pull the jar of paint out, and go". My hands chose to soundly ignore this request and instead chose to cling tenaciously to the rungs.

This would be bad, but soon I discovered that was the least of my problems. See, having apparently avoided heights with an efficiency previously unimagined, I discovered that not only were my hands being uncooperative, now my feet had joined the revolution. So now I'm standing at the top of the ladder, not painting, and unable to make myself climb down. My limbs had decided that I was not the one calling the shots anymore, and that they were in charge now. Thank goodness my colon remained loyal.

Anyway, I managed to get down, and almost a full hour (and a lot of pacing and talking to myself) later, I managed to get back up the ladder and start painting. What was odd was that as long as I was painting I was fine, but the second I stopped I could feel myself freezing up again. I've not experienced such a loss of physical control over my body in my life, and frankly it was as disturbing an experience as I've ever had. I'm sure I'll get over it in time, but I'm not in any hurry to try it again.

Ah, To Be Chewbacca. What a Wookie.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about how lucky I am. I've got a great family. I have a job that does not seem to be under any kind of immediate threat. I'm pretty. I've got a lot of things going for me. Some of it is through hard work, some because I have an excellent support system, but some, some is pure, random luck. In this last category I put the following item.

I've got a full head of hair.

I'm not saying this to make my follically challenged fellows feel bad about the gleam upon their pate. Rather, I'm saying it because I dodged a genetic bullet on this one. This is an instance of tremendous luck on my part.

When I was a young man growing up, I had always heard the same thing. If you want to know if you'll be bald, look at the uncles on your mother's side of the family. Well, I had two biological uncles. (Mom was adopted, so I also had a drunk of other uncles, which for those of you who didn't know, is the proper term for more than one uncle - a "drunk" of uncles. Well, it was in my family anyway.) These two were nice and all, but they had less hair on their combined heads than Keanu Reeves has emotional outbursts ("Whoa...I'm so upset. Dude, what were we talking about again?"). So yeah, I was looking forward to a life spent scouring haberdashers in the hopes of hiding my striking resemblance to Friar Tuck.

Now I know what you're all saying right now. "You're so charming and smart and funny, why would you concern yourself with looks?" I get that a lot. Nonetheless, I must confess that I, shamefully, am a proud man. That, and I have a tenancy to grow my hair out long. Guys who can wear the bald look are lucky, but I have yet to see the successful pulling off of the balding hippy look. It always comes off so...I don't know. Balding hippy I guess.

So there you have it. Amongst the things that I am grateful for in my life, I simply must count the fact that I've got a full head of hair. I know it shouldn't matter, but even with the whole "beauty comes from the inside", I'm still grateful.

After all, as a man, I have yet to have something come from inside of me that would fall into any category other than "Gah...get it away! Kill it! Kill it with fire!".

Do Scotsmen Dream of Electric Sheep?

I have a question, and it's one that is now really eating at me. We have all this technology, right, and we use it to build all of this ridiculous %#@$ that no one really needs, right? So, for those of us who tend to watch such innovation, you see certain trends, and one glaring absence.

Why isn't anyone trying to build android men?

This topic is being discussed today thanks to my lovely wife. She sent me the link to the latest attempt to build a robot bride. This yahoo (sorry for my international readers, but I do not know the proper, Japanese transaction for "yahoo"), for reasons I do not comprehend, has taken two years and several thousand dollars and dedicated himself to building himself a girl. This is a variety of creepy that even I, at my most nerdcore, find disturbing.

She includes many "features" too. She reads the day's headlines to him over breakfast. She gives directions while they drive (heh - the world's first genuine GPS nagigator). She'll slap a dude who gets out of line. The guys was kind enough to point out that their relationship remains, shall we say, platonic, although he has pondered the upgrades that would be required to make them man and droid (and in that instance, I'm using "man" in the loosest possible sense).

The thing is, this isn't the first I've heard of men attempting to create robot wives/girlfriends. Ignoring the obvious Stepford comments, all sorts of attempts have been made to allow guys with enough money to simply sidestep the whole "actually go out and meet a girl" scene. Take real dolls for example (link is Wikipedia, so it's safe and informative, in a really creepy kind of way, but I don't recommend following any links after that if you be at work today).

So, while all of that is creepy and whatnot, it naturally leads to the question at hand: where the hell are all of the male doll makers? I mean, why are men so desperate to avoid women, but women seem to lack this desperation? Are we really that easily replaced? I suppose it's not that difficult to take out your own garbage, so as long as a woman can open jars, our usefulness is greatly diminished. But still, it would seem like there would be some market for an artificial fella, right?

Personally, I would like to think that it would take more than one of these and a "neck massager" to replace me, and if anyone thinks otherwise, I would appreciate them keeping that opinion to themselves.

Of Course, If You Guys Wanted to Start a Collection, I Wouldn't Say No

For those of you not watching the news now that the election is over (and who could blame you), you might be missing one of the most delightful scandals in recent times. It seems that the Governor of Illinois tried to sell the now vacant Senate seat previously belonging to Barack Obama. He had the decency not to do it on eBay or anything, but he tried nonetheless.

You may be asking why this scandal is different from the myriad abuses that we face each day from those in power. My response would be that, at least from the outward appearances, this one differs in the brashness of the accused. He's caught on wiretaps saying things like "you don't just give it away for nothing". He's been accused of holding up legislation until he got campaign donations, trying to get journalists who criticized him fired through state business deals and threatening to pull state funds from a children's hospital unless part of the funds came back as campaign contributions. There's no word yet if they guy tried to use his position to take candy from babies, but I wouldn't count it out.

So, faced with arrest, and multiple accusations, how does the good Governor Blagojevich respond? Does he publicly apologize for all of it, or (more likely), deny the hell out of it? Well, not exactly.

He posted bail and went back to work.

His spokesman commented on that. "The day-to-day operation doesn't change nor is it affected. There are still critical state issues that he wants to address - things like dealing with the current financial crisis, looking at ways to keep people in their homes and finding ways to create jobs - and will continue to do so as governor." Included in these critical state issues is presumably the aforementioned Senate seat assignment.

Of course everyone want his out now. Cries have gone up for his resignation, and there is a movement to hold some variety of special election to select the new Senator, but no word from Blagojevich (which is really hard to type, by the way). Nope, he's all business as usual. So here's to you, Guvnor. Way to stick to the work, disregarding all of this corruption brouhaha that's going on around you. And pay no heed to the naysayers who mocked you for attending court in a lowly pair of sweatpants.

After all, I'm not sure where you'll find dress pants that could contain the hundred pound, solid brass cojones you're clearly sporting.

All New Holiday Traditions, Brought to You By Burma Shave

So lets talk about something that's...unusual today. Today, I would like to address an odd side effect of a huge part of American life, something that has occurred, and that a lot of us appreciate, without anyone really bothering to put it into words that often. Today, I sing the praises of a certain unsung group of heroes.

Advertisers.

Okay, now I know what you're thinking. Normally, the denizens of Madison Avenenue are spoken of in the same breath as lawyers, politicians and oompa loompas (%@$#ing oompa loompas), and for good reason. Their job is to take some thing that we probably don't need, and convince us that we do. It's manipulative. It's disturbing. Overall, not a great mission in life.

There are those, however, who take that mission and create something wonderful out of it. Then they transcend their positions from mere marketers to artists. Sometimes, they even create something so impressive that it becomes part of our culture. I'm not talking about that red haired freak who pushes burgers on the unsuspecting masses. No, I'm talking about something bigger, something that has become a tremendous part of many of our lives.

I'm talking about Santa Claus.

Now don't get me wrong. I understand that everyone's favorite demigod has origins that trace back to Saint Nicholas of Myra. (At least I'm assuming he's a demigod - he has super powers and all that.) I also know that the current, accepted version of the man came in large part from "A Visit From St. Nicholas" a.k.a. "The Night Before Christmas", dating back to 1823. It was the Coca-Cola company, however, that put the fat man in the red suit all over the map. Oh he was gaining popularity, but it was the soda pop people who pushed him into icon status.

For that matter, what about Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer? This was purely a concoction of advertising, originating in 1939 as part of a Montomery Ward coloring book to be given away at Christmas time. Now, there isn't a kid who is unaware of the crimson-schnozzed caribou round these parts. It's simply part of the culture.

So there you have it. While many of us may look down our nose at our advertising counterparts, let us not sell short their contribution to our culture as Americans. Who knows what today's marketing geniuses will produce that our children will accept as part of our culture at large.

Heh - imagine people warning their children of the dreaded Axe effect, and how it leads to venereal disease.

I'm Not Fat! I'm Festively Plump.

Okay, I'm now feeling properly Christmassy. I set up a tree (just lights so far, because it takes a bloody long time to wind four strings of lights into a fake tree so you can't see the cords, thank you very much). We've almost finished shopping. The local grocer carries Silk egg nog (which goes extremely well with whiskey). I'm all on the Christmas station on the iPhone. Dude, I'm totally jolly and %#$@.

Mostly I'm feeling it though because the kids were out for the weekend, giving us the opportunity to set up the big gifts this year. So we took an entire afternoon to put together this and this. This rocks because now, on Christmas, the only assembly required will be putting batteries in stuff, which hopefully will be kept to a minimum. This a lot more fun that the kids watching daddy quietly cursing out an Allen wrench for five hours.

It's funny, because being a big kid myself, part of my looking forward to Christmas has always been the loot. Even now, we as parental units really don't spend money on ourselves often, so Christmas is one of the few times I replenish my game supply, or maybe get a book or CD I've wanted. Ordinarily my money is slated for more important things like education or broken things around the house.

Don't get me wrong - I'm still all about the loot. I have my little Amazon wish list (which despite reports I cannot see whether or not things have been purchased from - they hide that the entire month of December). It's just not the focus for me. These days, I'm more excited to see the kids open their stuff and play. Oh sure, part of that excitement is that I'll get to "help" the Princess figure out how to use a remote control Wall-E to chase the cat around, but still.

So yeah, I'm now ready for the upcoming festivities. So long as we can keep the snow at it's current levels (enough to look festive, but not so much that I have to go snow blowing each morn), I think I'm good. We just need to bust out the rest of the holiday decorations, crack open a fruitcake, put on Der Bingle, and proceed with the holiday goodness.

On second thought, why don't we hold off on that fruticake for now.

It's Truly a Marvel

I rely heavily on my Playstation Portable to get my through my workouts, and I've once again scored a terrific game to keep me distracted while I sit on the accursed exercise bike - Marvel Ultimate Alliance. You put together a team of four superheroes from the Marvel universe, and they have to fight through a series of challenges. It's nerdcore awesomeness.

It does remind me, though, that I am far from a comic book geek. I read whatever they have at the library, and I'm a fan of some of it. I think the Sandman series by Niel Gaiman, for example, while starting out kid of rough, ended up being something that really stuck with me, and as previously reviewed, I quite enjoyed Johnny the Homicidal Maniac. I'm far from what you'd call a fan though, always preferring the more text-based storytelling of novels.

Marvel, however, has proven itself an entertainment juggernaut, and having loved the first two X Men movies as well as last summer's Iron Man, I know enough about the characters to be interested. The problem is that, well, sometimes it feels silly. I mean, at least in Marvel's case, the X Men came along to give an excuse for why all these people were showing up with super powers, but some of the story lines just put to much pressure on my suspension of disbelief if you follow them too far.

Take Spiderman for example. A spider gets all radioactive, and somehow doesn't die. Then that spider bites a dude. As we all know, he's suddenly super strong and can climb walls and stuff, which is awesome. (I'm enough of a geek to deny the movies allowing him to sling web, which the comics always did with a gadget he invented, but only because I still don't like the idea of some guy leaving bodily fluids all over New York. Well, okay, another guy.) In real life, the guy would get an slightly less awesome welt, along with some form of necrosis. Don't Google it - trust me that it's something some spiders give people, and it's icky.

It's like that over and over. Dare Devil goes blind when exposed to a radioactive substance, and all of his other senses go through the roof instead of him getting the normal heightened sense of smell. (Plus he's supposedly a hero and a lawyer. Please. Like that could ever happen.) Bruce Banner is exposed to a ton of gamma radiation, and he turns into a super strong behemoth, which is much more exciting that the more realistic cancer. I think you see where I'm going with this.

Of course, most of the time I try not to think so much about all of this. I mean, some of these characters were created over fifty years ago. It's not like they could hop on Wikipedia and look up gamma rays like I can. So, not unlike my complaints about Swiper, I should probably learn to just accept that it's silly and enjoy it, or not bother with it at all. Knowing me, I'm going the silly route.

After all, it seems like the people there are always having more fun.

Maybe I Do Believe In Santa Claus

So, today I was all primed to discuss one of my random topics when someone shared a link so lovely, so special, that it pre-empted my thoughts and forced me to address it. See, for each generation, there is a set of icons - those figures that someone become something more than their fellows. For some reason when I was a kid, one of those icons for me was actually four guys, dressed in coveralls, being everything a young, impressionistic man could ever want to be - funny, suave and heroic.

I speak, of course, of the Ghostbusters.

Ghostbusters was somehow a perfect blend of action and humor. We got Harold Ramis as the extremely intelligent scientist. We got Ernie Hudson as a perfect, straight talking, in-it-for-a-check working man. We got Dan Akroyd at his best, bumbling simpleton led by his friends. And we got Bill Murray, the brilliant, sublime Bill Murray, as the opportunistic smart aleck along for the ride.

Ghostbusters, and for me anyway, Ghostbusters 2, were nearly perfect movies. They were silly enough for laughs, serious enough for suspense, and overall completely engrossing. I'm not exaggerating when I say that this movie really shaped me a little. If nothing else, I remember taking cues from Bill Murray on the proper dispensing of humor to diffuse tense situations.

A few months ago, in wondering why they never went for a trilogy, I did a little Googling and discovered that there was some feud between Bill Murray and Harold Ramis as a result of Groundhog Day (another classic), and that they had declared that they would never work together again. My heart broke a little at the thought that, without the four of them, a third movie would be somehow lacking. It would be like a lead singer of a great band declaring that he's reforming the band without any of the other original members and then taking ten years to release an album that is widely criticized as mediocre at best. Why would anyone bother?

Today, however, finds me filled with hope. You see, through the healing power of video games, we now have the upcoming Ghostbusters video game, and the linked trailer seems to be filled with promise. Presumable taking advantage of the fact that voice work does not require the actors to be together, they have brought back the original four Ghostbusters in game form. It's all of them...and..and it's a game. I didn't actually wet myself with excitement, but it was a near thing. Another cup of coffee, and I probably would have embarrassed myself.

So there you have it. Once again, video games have stepped up to create something magical for me. Even better - there's talk that if the game renews enough interest, they may actually try and bust out a third movie after all. My childhood heroes, reunited. I'm...I'm just so happy now.

You'll have to excuse me...I seem to have something in my eye.

Call Me When We Get To Fuchsia Tuesday

So, being a combination of anti-social and not a big fan of shopping, you might imagine that I avoid the whole "Black Friday" scene like Star Trek fans avoid red shirts. If so, you would be correct. Coming off of a relaxing Thanksgiving with my family, I'd frankly rather eat my feet than stand in line trying to score a deal on some doodad that I can probably order on the internet (or even better, just buy at Meijer with groceries) for not much more money.

Beyond my laziness, however, is the fact that I get mallstrophobic. When I go into the mall, or any other store this time of year, if there are too many people there I start to panic a little. I'm not sure why, but my stress levels go through the roof, and within seconds I'm prepared to start throwing elbows if it will get me and my family back into the comparatively calm sanity of the parking lot.

This panic isn't entirely unfounded. As I'm sure you've all heard, this year led to an actual Black Friday death at a Wal Mart in New York. The highlight of that particular story, by the way, is at the end. When people were asked to leave because, you know, somebody died, some of the shoppers had the nerve to complain that they had been waiting in line since the day before. Apparently getting to watch Nascar on their new 50-inch screen television trumped that whole be-kind-to-others, spirit of Christmas thing.

But there you go. Maybe this is the spirit of Christmas now. Maybe this is why so far, I'm not feeling it this year. It got a little better when we bought the kids presents (on a relatively safe and sane Sunday at Toys R Us), but I'm still just kind of blah about the whole thing. Hopefully putting up a tree will alleviate this.

Either way, the concept of waiting in crazy long lines for material goods just isn't something I can ever see myself doing. The whole thing feels like a scam to me anyway - we'll put a couple of cameras on a crazy clearance, people will fight over them, and then they'll buy other stuff while they're here. No thanks. I'll stick with Amazon. They bring the stuff I order right to the door.

You find another way for me to do my shopping without bothering with niceties like, I don't know, putting pants on, and maybe we can talk.

Dora. Pawnshop. Crackhouse. Again!

Since I spend most of my time with one or more kid, I get to see lots of educational television. I don't mean the good stuff like Mythbusters or The History of Sex on the history channel (which I actually saw a lot of - the ancient Egyptians put out enough hieroglyphic porn to fuel two Internets). No, I get the crowd from Sesame Street, library lions, and a little Hispanic girl, which is where I noticed an interesting thing.

Most episodes of Dora the Explorer involve Swiper. Swiper is a fox who shows up to...well, swipe. If Dora and her entourage manage to say "Swiper, no swiping" three times, Swiper is forced to run off. One would guess he suffers from the same psychological impediment as Mustafa from Austin Powers.

Anyway, if they don't manage to say it three times, Swiper takes whatever they have at the moment, but he doesn't run off with it as you might expect from a criminal. No, he just throws it into the distance, laughs and declares "You'll never find it now" before vanishing from the scene. This is exactly where they lose me. He doesn't actually steal anything, he just takes it and makes it hard for Dora and friends to get it back. Just once, instead of Dora asking for help finding the lost loot, I want her to call him out on it.

Swiper throws (object of day).
Swiper: Heh-heh-heh. You'll never find it now.
Dora: Wait, so you're just going to throw it away?
Swiper: Yeah, and you'll never find it.
Dora: So you didn't need it or anything?
Swiper: Uh...no, I guess not.
Dora: You're not, like, starving, and need to sell it for food?
Swiper: Well...I...no. No, I just felt like slowing you guys down I guess. And you'll never...
Dora: (Interrupting) Yeah, we'll never find it now. Got that, thanks. So, you just showed up here to take the stuff that we need and hide it, even though you clearly didn't need it yourself, and seem to gain nothing from the experience other than %#^$ing up our day. Do I have that about right?
Swiper: (Clearly uncomfortable now) Well I didn't mean to ruin your day or...I just thought it would be fun, like a game. You know, hide and seek or something.
Dora: Yeah, we're kind of in the middle of something right now, which I think you knew, didn't you?
Swiper: (Hands behind back fidgeting with his tail while looking down at his feet) Yeah, I suppose I did.
Dora: And you just show up, take our stuff, and then toss it in a tree. For no reason. Do I have that right?
Swiper: (Quietly, starting to cry a little) Yes.
Dora: I SAID DO I HAVE THAT RIGHT!
Swiper: (Sobbing loudly) Yes, yes.
Dora: Good. I'm glad we've gotten that out of the way. Swiper?
Swiper: What?
Dora: You're an %#$hole.

Now I know, it's a kids show. I'm over thinking the whole thing. In my defense though, you can only watch it so many times before you start to wonder just what Swiper's %#$@ing problem is. If you're going to steal, at least pawn it off, maybe buy a pair of pants to match your Zorro mask and little gloves. Is it too much to ask that the character have some motivation?

Maybe a crack problem?

At Least I'm Still the Only One Who Can Open Any Jar in the House

I had a short list of things to get done this weekend, and I failed miserably. Oh well - I'm over it. Unfortunately, this weekend once again threw into my face one thing that I am not over, one thing that continues to haunt me and bother me.

I am not a handy man.

Seriously, no part of my upbringing involved learning how to repair or build anything. While other young men were standing behind their parental units watching car repairs or learning the proper way to hang siding on a house, I was receiving such useful wisdom as "Never give them the money first". Not really as useful as one might think.

So now, as a man in his thirties and a first time homeowner, I can't fix a #%@$ing thing, instead doing the one thing I learned well from my parents growing up - I pay other people to do things I cannot. Now, I'm at least smarter about it (they had a habit of hiring people they knew, which can lead to awkward situations when a job is not done to your standards), but still, it's degrading in a way. As an American man, I've been led to believe that I should be able to step out into the garage and magically know how the cars work, or the proper way to maintain a lawn mower, or whatever. I expected that I would awake one day, and in a shining moment of clarity, all the requisite information would just be downloaded, Matrix-like, into my noggin. Instead, I can write code, bake cookies, and occasionally fix your computer (although my current success rate at that even is faltering).

I know I shouldn't let it bother me. I mean, I have skills, just not those skills. It's hard though. It doesn't help that the men in my wife's family all seem to be of the type that can go out into the woods and, in a week, have a small cabin with cable and indoor plumbing built. I mean, good for them and all, but it tends to cast the occasional shadow that makes it hard to see when I'm writing the handyman's check.

Well, like I said, I'll get over it. I always do with things like this. It bothers me though that this is another area where my kids will have to look to others to learn what I never did. I'm not too worried about the Princess, but I feel some guilt over the Moose. I mean, between this and not knowing how football is played, I'm going to have to outsource a lot of standard "man" knowledge.

Thank goodness I'm still a master at rude noises and dirty jokes.