What if...
I recently had dinner with a friend studying to become a rabbi and I asked him what he believed in. I've just finished Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything, and among other thoughts, I came to the conclusion that if the Earth is 4.5 billion years old and the universe is many billions of years older, isn't it kind of narcissistic to think some God chartacter would care about such a tiny speck of dust in the vast infinity of existence? And that he'd wait until a few thousand years ago to worry about a bunch of creatures who've been around for so little time relative to the age of the planet?

Of course, my rabbi friend didn't feel the same way. He believes there's a meaning to life, and a purpose, and that finding God is important. He told me about a woman he knew who had terrible medical problems but believed there must be a reason, that God wouldn't let her suffer for nothing. I approve of religion when it gives people comfort, especially about the larger questions, just as long as you don't push it on me, or let it dictate public policy. After all, it's alot easier to rationalize your suffering if you feel there's a purpose behind it. (Even if that sounds even more narcissistic.)

Tonight I watched a special on NESN called What If... in which they showed the first 7+ innings of Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS, then cobbled together footage of what was statistically likely to have gone down had Grady pulled Pedro in the 8th. I knew it was a terrible idea, and yet I couldn't look away. And of course I could only indulge in such shameful navel-gazing because we won the World Series a year later.

I'll confess, the last time I wondered about a higher power was after Game 3 of the 2004 World Series. Not only had the playoffs proceeded in larger than life fashion, but Pedro was always a better pitcher in warm weather, and suddenly St. Louis was unseasonably toasty for his Game 3 start. Up 3-0, we would be looking at a full moon for the clincher. It would be 86 years since our last World Series win, the worst near-miss coming in '86. And it had been 18 years since our last World Series appearance, our last win coming in '18. There almost seemed almost to be larger forces at work. Also, I was smoking a lot of pot back then.

Oh, and a week later Bush won and all my religion went right away.

Of course a large part of what had made the Sox' playoff run magical was the history. Not just a century of rivarly with the Yankees, but the the 2003 ALCS. A tense series culminating in a crushing -- CRUSHING -- loss that seemed so preventable, the Red Sox once again clumsily snagging defeat from the jaws of victory. It led to the summer madness of each team trying to land A-Rod (I never wanted him) and raised the stakes on the 2004 season so that every game -- EVERY GAME -- was life or death in way I hadn't though possible. And it set the stage for the greatest comeback in sports history.

1986... well, that just sucked. But 2004 was what it was in part because it came on the heels of Game 7 in 2003. We found out we'd suffered for a reason. After all, when you live through a brutal Boston winter, that first day of spring is the best of your life. You don't appreciate it in LA because you don't have to earn it the same way. And you'll note where I currently reside.

Believe me, I hated 2003. I'm a little surprised I was able to sit through this tonight (especially when they showed the real 8th inning afterward) and the memories of the game have been bothering me ever since. But you just can't play the what if game. What if I had gone abroad junior year of college? What if the Supreme Court hadn't intervened in 2000? What if we had a back door that thieves couldn't compromise? Whether or not these things happened for a reason, the fact is they happened and you can't change that. You can only hope to learn from the experience and use it going forward.

(NESN likely didn't realize they were raising the issues of whether there's such a thing as fate or a grand plan for the universe. They just wanted to show Embree getting the last two outs of the 8th and Timlin getting Jeter to ground to third to nail down the 5-3 victory. See, now you don't have to watch it.)

Game 7 in 2003 sucked, but it happened, and you have respect that. You can try to guess how 9/11 and its aftermath would play out if Gore had been president, but a) you'll get too sad, and b) it's never that simple. I can say I should have behaved differently with my girlfriend when I was 15, but to follow that chain of events, I never would have moved to LA and my life would be completely different today. Pull Pedro and maybe today Schilling's a Yankee and Ortiz is seen as just another pretty good player. Maybe cold fusion would be a reality and bacon wouldn't taste good any more.

All I know is that there's value in history, but not much in revisionist history. And when you look at it all in a much larger perspective and see that we're just tiny blips inside a tiny blip... well, maybe it doesn't even matter whether Pedro stayed in for the 8th inning or not. After all, the Marlins still would have beaten us in 6.
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Douchebaggery
ME: "Douchebag" seems to be having a bit of a renaissance.
WIFE: What?
ME: It's everywhere. It's the new big word to use.
WIFE: You and I run in pretty different circles.

But it's true. For months now, maybe a full year, "douchebag" has been the demi-hipster world's insult of choice. On The Daily Show, on morning radio shows, on the blogoshpere. South Park did a whole episode about John Edward (the psychic, not the almost-veep) being The Biggest Douche in the Universe. And I'm no stranger myself.

I don't understand how we got here. I mean, I understand how the word entered my lexicon. Teenage boys hear every flavor of insult, and while douche and douchebag were tossed around, they never had a proper heyday. When I found out what an actual douche was, it seemed an odd thing to call someone. Of course, Beavis and Butthead routinely used "dillweed" as an insult, so maybe logic is not applicable. But I was much more into calling someone a loser, a dork, or even a fartknocker (huh huh, huh huh).

Then I started IM-ing with a guy in LA who would call me names for no reason and misspell them in what I found a hilarious fashion. "Jagoff" was one, although I've seen it spelled that way elsewhere. The other was "duschbag," which I came to love. I always imagined dusch as rhyming with Bush (insert joke here) and still sometime pronounce it that way. More and more, it slipped into my vocabulary. And here we are today, all douchey and bagggy.

But I'm pretty sure this guy was not IM-ing with Stephen Colbert, and yet "douchebag" gets a fair amount of lip service on the Report. I suspect Colbert and my guy both got it from the same on-high source that decided that "rad" and "right on" would make a comeback, who decided that E's could be replaced by 3's, and who made some weird decisions in Walpole, Mass in the mid-'80s. There was the bizarre, "Smooth move, Ex-Lax," which I think was more widespread. And then there was "swoosh."

I was playing soccer and this tough kid stole the ball from me, passed to a friend, and as he ran away, mouthed "SWOOSH!" then twisted his hand, closing his fingers one by one starting with the pinkie. I was so confused. But soon everyone in school was using "swoosh" as a subsitute for "fuck you."

Maybe it was started by some parents who told their kid to come up with a subtitute for swearing. Maybe it was imported from Norwood, the Shelbyville to Walpole's Springfield. I have no idea. But for one year, swoosh was all the rage. When our teacher was talking about language and asked for examples of current slang, I derisively mentioned this new one, and one girl turning and staring at me slack-jawed: "You just said swoosh to the teacher?!"

Then again, she was a pretty major swooshbag, so what did she know?
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Like no business I know
Here's a joke from my final draft of an episode of television I wrote:

HER: The GNB weatherman got butt implants.
HIM: See, I'd heard cheek implants, but I assumed they were the cheeks upstairs.
HER: Apparently if he sits down too hard, he bounces right back up.
They laugh.

Not bad, not great. Utilizes the word "butt," which is good, and I liked the play on "cheeks" and the idea of a springy implant. The writers laughed, said it was good, then "punched it up." By the time it got before a live studio audience, it looked like this:

HER: Our weatherman got butt implants.
HIM: I thought he was a meteorologist.
HER: I don't know about that, but he's definitely a fake-ass-ologist.
They laugh.

This expands upon the work begun with "butt" and ups the ante to "ass." After all, it was a 9:30 show and we were encouraged to take risks in the later hour. Risks like the subtle nuance of "fake-ass-ologist."

Of course 90% of scripts are rewritten, especially those penned by a September call-up from the minors like me. And most of the changes didn't bother me much. Fake-ass-ologist did. As did this one from another script for another show:

HIM: No burgers for Maria? Oh no. I've never seen my little girl this upset.
HER: I love that you use ground beef as an emotional barometer.

In four years of writing jokes for television scripts, this was probably my favorite. In context (i.e. knowing who HIM was) it was even a little better. And sure, it was a little too nerdy for the WB, but the executive producer said he loved this joke and everyone seemed pretty happy with it. Here's what they replaced it with:

(SCENE OMITTED)

When I casually mentioned that this was my favorite joke in the script, the response was, "Well, this is a good lesson for Dan about killing your babies."

The vast majority of sitcom writers are extremely untalented and/or awful human beings. (And you'd never guess it watching prime time network television!) And yet the writer who who pitched fake-ass-ologist and the one who cut emotional barometer both happen to be fantastic people and great writers, two of my absolute favorites in Hollywood.

The moral of the story?

I dunno. Read more books or something? When have my stories ever had morals?
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Nick & Jessica: The exclusive interview
When the wicked popular blog Engadget celebrated their second anniversary by asking people to bake gadget-themed birthday cake, newlyweds Nick & Jessica really rose to the occasion. No, not that Nick & Jessica. My friend's sister and her husband, good children of the '80s, and very nerdy bakers. After all, look at the cake they came up with:



Yes, it's a most delicious rendering of the Atari 2600. Their exploits are well chronicled and very fun to look through. Access Hollywood can have Simpson & Lachey (Billy Bush is not my friend), because Surgical Strikes has an exclusive interview with a Nick & Jessica who really matter.

* * *

Or at least that was the plan when I came up with this idea, mmm, nearly 120 posts ago. And while answers to my questions would be cool, I'm more interested in showing off the pictures and clearing this out of my drafts folder. So despite many broken promises to send answers, here are the questions from my original March 15th email, and you can feel free to provide your own at home.

Is the Atari 2600 better than the NES, and why?

When was the last time you played Atari? Do you currently own one?



Would an Intellivision cake taste slightly better but be too complicated to bake?

In Combat, would you rather be the three little planes or the one big bomber?



Would you call yourselves nerds, dorks, geeks, or none of the above?

How would Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey's Atari cake turn out?



What advice would you give someone attempting their own '80s video game cake?

FOOTNOTE: Bought a new connector at Radio Shack last night and proceeded to get my ass kicked at Missile Command. And Megamania. And Super Breakout. And every game we played except Moon Patrol. My wife is much better at video games than me.
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My dog causes more damage by 7 am than most people do all day

• Thursday and Friday the dog went berserk and then manged to be even worse on Saturday. Woke us up at 5 am, knocked over a vase of flowers, thoroughly attacked anything vaguely food-related on the counters. He even peed on the subwoofer, which I would have thought he'd relate to at a barking level. Then Sunday, he was awesome. Sweet as can be, incredibly calm, sat on command, even let us sleep in to 6:30! I guess we'll see how he does with the dwarves tonight at Class #2. (To be covered on Meaghan's blog, unless it's boring, in which case SURGICAL STRIKES IS THERE.)
• More detailed post to come, but I loaded 1800 songs into our iTunes this weekend. Over 120 CD's, and while it isn't a quite drop in the bucket, it's a Dixie cup. Brought a Case Logic to work and have been continuing the loading.
• A few months ago, I threatened to make broccoli sorbet, but that quickly fell in with my threats to write a movie called "Ninjas: A love Story" and came to nil. Then last night, I found myelf with two full bunches of greens we couldn't bear to make for dinner. So I worked the juicer, then the ice cream maker, and created what may be the world's first batch of Swiss chard sorbet. And miraculously, it's not bad. It's not going be the next Chunky Monkey, Chubby Hubby, or Obese Ho' Geese, but it's pretty tasty. And possibly the healthiest ice cream of all time.
• Started jogging with the dog yesterday, which technically made it a djog. And I'm telling you about it on my dlog.
• Speaking of the juicer and ice cream maker, we fired up another of our bizarre wedding gifts -- literally. In honor of Bastille Day, we had fondue. Which doesn't sound like hot weather food, mostly because it isn't. But have you ever known me to say no to cheese? Especially melted cheese? Also gave us a good excuse to run our AC for the first time. Verdict: central air is ozone-destroyingly awesome!
• Broke the Atari. Or rather I broke a connector that would have been easily replaced in 1984. And so I will build a time machine to visit an early-80s Radio Shack. Maybe I'll pick up some Microsoft stock and a McDLT while I'm there.

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Summer rerun: The Hollywood Lap Dance
(Can't think of anything to write about, and Meaghan dashed off enough brilliance last night to cover our household for while... so here's something I wrote in 2002 in my second failed webzine. It still holds up for the most part, although there are definitely a few cringe-worthy passages...)

I used to work with a guy who'd slept with half the women in Los Angeles. He'd been in a hair-band that was popular at the height of the hair-band era and, well, let's just say that during an office-wide game of Truth or Dare, he couldn't calculate exactly how many threesomes he'd had. Another interesting tidbit that surfaced in the game was that he'd never had a lap dance. Group sex was a given, but he never had a stripper be his private dancer, dancin' for money, etc. "I love strip clubs," he explained, "but I always said, lap dances are for guys who can't get laid."

Aspiring essayist that I am, I stored this chestnut in the back of my mind, sure that one day I'd be able to mine his alpha behavior for some strained metaphor. Maybe about relationships, or about excess, or about grass being greener on the side with roadies. But no, it turned out the current best use of this tale is to further self-examine life as an aspiring something in Hollywood. Because when you get right down to it, isn't everything about that?

In Los Angeles, the cliché is that you live among the stars. You shop among the stars, eat burritos among the stars, get stuck in traffic among the stars -- stars are always around you, and if you're even remotely cool, you play it cool around them. My first celebrity-spotting, I trembled with excitement to see the liquid metal Terminator ahead of me in line for a smoothie. In time, I settled down, and by the time I asked an Emmy-winning actress if she was David Spade's hairdresser, I was a veritable cucumber. Apologetic and embarrassed, but cucumbric nonetheless.

My formula for not being an idiot around celebrities is to remember that we're both members of the entertainment industry, they're just a lot more successful and drive a nicer car. So it's best to act like a peer, not like a fan. This is not to say one should talk about Bobby DeNiro and Chuck Heston, or attempt to "talk shop" when you "run into" Gwyneth Paltrow at the "dry cleaner." The key is to be cool and not to ask them for a lap dance -- that's for the guys who can't get laid.

I got a lap dance at a comic book store and very quickly regretted it. My favorite cartoonist was making an appearance a few blocks from my house and although I half-wanted my book signed, I felt like a putz. Ever since I waited in line for Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel to sign my lecture ticket, I'd determined that seeking autographs was for the guys who can't talk to a celebrity any other way. I've often said I don't want to attend the Oscars until I'm a nominee (could take a while), and I'm sticking by that. Still, this cartoonist had illustrated an article I'd written years ago, which almost distinguished me as a peer. When I produced a print-out of the images for him, he immediately recognized them ("Boston Phoenix, right?") and I became an insider, a peer.

But then I asked him to sign the print and I might as well have stuffed dollar bills into his G-string.

I later found out his wife belongs to the same semi-exclusive Internet mailing list I do, which I thought could be my way into meeting this guy for real. But I quickly realized that I'd already identified myself as someone who can't get laid. Asking for that autograph branded me a rookie, an amateur, a regular schmo. I'm no writer -- I'm a goddam fan.

Of course, altogether losing the ability to be a fan makes you pretty insufferable. Nothing's worse than trying to discuss movies with a guy who has to explain his connection to everyone involved. And I remember seeing a music reviewer wearing a blank expression at a Pearl Jam concert and feeling sad for him – he'd reviewed so much music, it was just a job to him, and he wouldn't feel the same orgasmic joy I would when they finally played "Alive." It's no easy feat to maintain your enthusiasm for the sheer joy of art and yet identify yourself as a fellow artist not sucked into our modern vortex of pop culture worship.

I'm still learning to navigate that line, and I do better than I used to. When I saw one of my favorite actors in a coffee shop, I focused on my latte. When I attended a panel discussion of the cast of one of my favorite TV shows, I resisted the urge to ask a question and become just another audience member. I slipped up with the cartoonist, and I guess I'll attribute it to youthful indiscretion -- after all, I'm not even a rookie yet, and until someone starts paying me for this kind of self-indulgent bullshit, I'm still an amateur. But I'm working on it. And if all goes as planned, I'll follow my hair-band dude analogy to its natural end and have numerous conquests soon enough. And if not, well, Hollywood's the lap dance capital of the world. I'll make a fortune on ebay.

* * *

And here's that cartoonist's rendering of me from the Phoenix article:

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If you kick Joe Buck in the nuts and nobody hears it, did you still improve baseball?

• While Monopoly is clearly a better game, I always preferred Life if only for its superior money. Not only had they adjusted for inflation, they made the bills look sorta like bills. Although I always thought it was kind of arbitrary that Art Linklater was on the $100,000 bill. Perhaps the game was owned by Craftmatic?
• Looks like Fox blew their whole $34.95 budget on the opening credits of last night's All-Star Game. Or maybe they had some leftover "shooting star" effects from the '85 All-Star Game. The point is, that opening would have gone great on my nachos because it was pure cheese.
• Hosting our first "dinner party" tonight, and if Woody Allen movies are any indication, I expect we'll discuss our book editing jobs while debating the relative merits of Bertrand Russell. Then again, last time this group got together, the centerpiece of the conversation was a spirited defense of nose-picking. By me. (Who else?)
• I've mulled it over a bit, and here's the only thing Signor Soccerino could have said to Monsieur Zidane that would justify a head-butt: "If you hit me, I promise to score an own goal so you win the World Cup." Otherwise you kind of have to cite the precedent of Sticks v. Stones. Even though the other guy's defense of "I am not a cultured person and I don't even know what an Islamist terrorist is" (direct quote) does sound suspiciously like Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer: "Now, I'm just caveman and I don't understand your complex world..."
• Many have noted that I've been spilling coffee on myself more and more recently, which inspired yet another a new category: Dumbassery. Frankly, I expected to find more than 17 examples.
• Kevin Youkilis was a promising minor leaguer who always did well when he was called up to the big leagues, but couldn't get regular time in the lineup. This year he's playing every day and he's awesome. Let's just say there are a couple people in Hollywood I might want to send his baseball card to.
• First person to send a link to that Fox All-Star open wins a sexy limerick written in their honor.

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Dog people are not crazy in the slightest
Had our first obedience training class at Petco last night and it was actually so funny I forgot to laugh.

The five people in class were Meaghan, myself, a woman with a lazy eye who sat on the floor in the middle of the aisle, her dwarf roommate, and that woman's teenage dwarf son. The teacher started class by telling us about her dogs: Mug the Pug, Mr. French, and the late Patsy McLongtail. At this point, Meaghan and I experienced what Cartman did the day he put his butt on a milk carton and two people with butts for faces showed up at his door looking for their son: we blew a funny gasket. This woman not only had a dog named Mr. French, she had unironically used my favorite joke structure: "This is my dog Chewy McCrapsalot" or "What are you, Matzoh von Jewenstein?" It overloaded our humor circuits and we were unable to muster as much as a snicker.

The teacher took us through the good and the bad of leashes, collars, and chew toys. Turns out the rawhide bones we've been giving Watson aren't the greatest idea since they can lead to choking. She showed us a bone made out of corn starch and also "the best chew toy of all," which looked like a thick Slim Jim.

"It's a bull's penis."

We didn't buy one. I'm not sure I want Watson to develop a taste for penis.

Next, we set about getting a dog to come when called. Everyone was handed treats and they chose a dog: me. Everyone would call, "Dan! Come here, Dan!" and if I ran to them, I got the treat. I wondered briefly if I offended Mrs. French by not eating it. Then again, it's not like they were offering me something good like nachos or dried animal genitalia.

I didn't fully get into my role of dog, but I must have been pretty convincing -- when I ran to one woman, she petted me like I was an actual dog, saying, "Good boy! Good boy!" I mildly panicked when I suspected they might choose another dog from the class. The dwarf woman wasn't a whole lot taller than Watson and he probably outweighs her by a good 5-10 lbs. I didn't want to play fetch with her.

Ten minutes away from class, Meaghan and I finally started laughing. A day later, we're still going. Can't wait till next week!
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Meaghan gave me chocolate at 11:00 last night
I was at my friend Mike's wedding and a woman from work I who came in with me was very annoyed that we might only be paid $400 to attend. She wanted $500, I wanted to work on my best man speech. But then the play began -- Hamlet, starring Mike, although it wasn't clear if he was in the giant bird costume onstage or just reading his lines into a microphone behind the curtain. Regardless, two gigantic pelicans performed Hamlet onstage, and the differences from the traditional Shakespeare version didn't end there. Mike directed me to the back of the stage to show me "the flying discs and magic boo." I couldn't quite remember what magic boo was, but I knew that there had been a time when I did. I thought it had to do with Dungeons and Dragons.
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Perspective
There was a time when I was jealous of my next door neighbors because they had a nicer tractor than we did.
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Quiday Quanswers
You know, to last month's Qursday Quiz. Doy.

1. According to Eric B., in order to get paid in full, a def beat requires:
You would naturally expect a def beat to necessitate dope rhymes, but in fact they must match -- if the def a beat shall be def, so must the rhymes follow suit. Stephen Hawking has been working on disproving this one the last several years, but I've yet to hear any media coverage about any progress, which can only indicate that the answer was a.

2. In the 1987 Johnson Middle School talent show, Dan Tobin embrassed himself by singing which Tom Lehrer song a cappella?
Oy. I auditioned with Tom Lehrer's "I Hold Your Hand in Mine," in which the narrator croons to his murdered wife's diembodied hand. When the teachers correctly deemed this inappropriate for a fifth-grade audeince, I panicked and elected to sing a patchwork, nonsensical version of a Tom Lehrer song I didn't like or understand beyond the Russian accent: "Nikolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky." It was a stunning failure that left the audience slackjaw stunned that any ten year-old could be so supremely uncool. I'm sure nobody remembers it now, but real damage was done; when high school rolled around, hundreds of girls knew they shouldn't go out with me but couldn't quite remember why. Something internal just told them "FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, NO!"

3. Which of the following baseball players does not inspire Meaghan and I to pronounce their last name like Cornholio?
Jorge JULIO! JULIO! Tony GrrrraffaNINO! GrafaNINO! Must be Mo Vaughn.

4. A “medium regulah” is:
All of the frickin' above, and also a caloric nightmare.

5. When my ex-roommate overheard Melanie Griffith on set say “Those assholes cut my closeup,” what was Antonio Banderas’s response?
This one's lot better aloud in squeaky and Latin lover voices... because trust me, if that dude said, "But why? You are so beautiful" in his dulcet tones, even I'd melt.

6. I have never actually played music as part of a “band” called:
Only fiction here is the famed Sons of Cookie Monster, which Bubba Ray Gracie and I spent years talking about and never actually formed, to the point that I'm not sure we ever told the drummer he was in the band.

7. So you like this game, huh?
Oh yes, Ren. It's my favorite Meaghan impression in the whole wide yerld.

8. This blog entry is categorized on WordPress as post #…
3569, sucka. The answer one is #3601.

9. I have not physically touched which dead celebrity?
Shook hands with Michael Kennedy after a rally for his uncle Ted at which Alec Baldwin was the featured speaker. Forced Buddy Hackett to shake my hand when he was a guest star on Just Shoot Me. Worked the sound at a Fourth of July party at the house of the founder of Herbalife, got a handshake and free dessert. Liberace it is.

10. This quiz was:
This quiz qucked.

WINNERS: You're all winners in my book. And now for a picture of me peeing on my friend's wedding cake:



Happy weekend!
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Old school bloggage
When I read other blogs, I skip to the short ones. This is all short ones.

Longtime readers of this blog will remember that the above epigram actually used to mean something. Not that the blog was better for it -- I don't think any of us have suffered as a result of me putting actual time and craftsmanship into the posting here. But as my Nerdy Ex-Roommate once said about Little Caesar's, it's not very good pizza, but you get SO MUCH OF IT. So for no particular reason, I've decided to return to my ADD roots today and give you SO MUCH PIZZA. I've post-dated this explanatory post to just before midnight, so if you return for new content throughout the day, it starts just below. And lest I betray the day's mission before I even begin, I'll take a cue from the ancient Italian philosopher Shudda Youmoutha and do so.
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The people have spoken!
And their silence speaks volumes! Tomorrow we're back to freakin' normal!
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My cell-phone rings in the middle of the day
It's my parents. I'm on a business call, but I panic because they rarely call my cell and NEVER during the week. Oh my God, it must be something terrible! When I hang up, I check the voicemail. It's my dad.

"Hey, Dan. Mom thought I should call you immediately..."

OH MY GOD... OH MY GOD...

"I have some interesting news about Atari, specifically Circus Atari..."

(sigh)
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Was Dan a dork freshman year of college?
Well, I spent the time to edit this together to play every time my computer started up. So then yes, yes I was (am).
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Overheard in Hollywood
A semi-known actor catches my boss after their pilot was not picked up by the network: "Fags and the Jews, Dave. The fags and the Jews fucked us." You really had to feel for the guy.
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Doing my part for America
Even though I'm thankfully retired from the comedy scene, I still half pay attention to Last Comic Standing to see if I know anyone. And alas, of the five "producers choice" comics up for online voting, two graced the stage at my Organic Comedy show at Karma Coffeehouse and another used to date a friend of mine. So I could make several endorsements, but I'll go with this one:

Of the 168 comics I welcomed to the stage, probably my favorite was Jackie Kashian, as evidenced by the fact that she performed there 12 times, more than any other comic. So go vote for her and make me cool by association or something.
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Got a ride to the train station this morning
Caught a lift with Meaghan on her way to work and about 200 feet from the house, we heard thud and saw something dripping off the side of the car. My first reaction was that someone threw an orange at us, but I quickly realized it was my travel mug falling off the roof and caffeinating the pavement. A far cry from my trademark awesomeness, I'm afraid.
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No rest for the awesome
Did you know NerdPress won't let you set a blog to an hour or date that hasn't happened yet? Sort of like how TiVo won't let you fast-forward into the future, no matter what my wife thought before it was installed.
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DumbSpace
Well, I've actually found myself scoffing at people on MySpace with fewer friends than me, which instantly makes me 20% less cool. I'm up to 216 friends, which is a good solid number considering I've tried to keep my friendsphere limited to people I actually know or have known (plus a few bands I like). I could have near-doubled my friends if I'd accepted friendship from all the shitty comics and shitty bands who excel at self-promotion. So 216-and-counting is a good solid number. Although when it came to filling my "Top-8," I strugglde to find eight actual friends and now have started messing it up week by week. Last week: black people. This week: people I've shared a bed with but never gotten to first base with. Next week: TBD.
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I need to refocus on blogging and fantasy baseball
Last night I dreamt that I posted two blog entries, each featuring a pair of unflattering pictures of me. Then Red Sox first baseman Kevin Youkilis had an ultrasound.
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#12
One Jack Johnson song may be nice, two may be okay, but putting a whole album on infinite repeat violates the terms of the Geneva Conventions.
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Fourth of July memories
(from my blog account of last year's Fourth)

I’ve felt ever so slightly guilty about leaving the country for the Fourth of July, but I didn’t really have a choice — a close friend was getting married in Vancouver and I had to go. In fact, I was the best man, so there was a lot I had to do, like show up early and stay in the officially sanctioned wedding hotel. My first Ritz Carlton experience was at a wedding last year and my first Fairmont stay was at the bachelor party for this wedding, so I guess I should have guessed that I would end up with my first Four Seasons experience this weekend.

Any time I’ve stayed in a nice hotel, I’ve been notably disappointed by the lack of anything too spectacular. Yes, fancier things in the minibar that I don’t use. Yes, nicer furniture I don’t sit on. Yes, floofier pillows that don’t properly support my big fat head. Yes, valets who make me uncomfortable and whose services I refuse in fear of having to tip. What exactly am I getting for my overpriced room rate?

A telephone in the bathroom for one. It cracks me up that these only seem to be featured in luxury hotels, as if only the rich like to talk while dumping. I suspect it’s actually there for the business traveler so focused on brokering big deals that he can’t miss a call, even if he’s in the process of taking a call from nature. “You tell Nathanson that I’m not gonna take any less [plop] than 14 million!”

I didn’t take advantage of the bathroom phone (well, not for more than two minutes) largely because Canada made me constipated. Arrived Friday, no dice. Then Saturday… no dice. I tried very hard before the wedding Sunday night, and produced one little tiny die, but I knew big things were on the way eventually. I was drinking coffee every day, eating my fiber, et cetera. Then on the birthday of our fair US nation, fireworks. I hadn’t been drunk at the wedding, but I woke up hung over. One of my favorite hangover cures is a giant dump, and I’d been inadvertantly prepping for days. Except it wasn’t a magnificent display, merely a B effort. Had brunch, dumped again. Got to the airport, dumped again. Made it home, dumped yet again. Which may be my first career Four Dump Day, which was only appopriate since the weekend brought me my first ever dumps at the Four Seasons. Culminating when? July Fourth.

Happy Independence Day from 365 Dumps.
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What the Internet was invented for: Pickles
I hate hate HATE to be the guy linking to the video of the moment and passing it off as a blog post. This is supposed to be a space reserved for the kind of writing nobody will pay me to do but that I'd like to read myself. A place for me to publish at will and inflict my awesome general worldview on a readership numbering into the low dozens. That said, I'd hate to think any of you might live another minute without having seen this sublime clip of Maury Povich interviewing a woman with a pathological fear of pickles. Endless hat tip to my awesome wife for uncovering it.

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A duck could be somebody's mother
I've always had sleeping problems, but as a kid my issues were borderline pathological. I didn't sleep with the door closed until high school, and my parents had to give our baby-sitters special instructions: it's okay if you hear the TV on. I needed to hear the noise in the other room to get to sleep. Of course, I couldn't trick myself into believing my parents were actually there, and I would toss and turn and sleep not a wink. If I was a dog, they'd call it separation anxiety and I'd pee on the carpet. Instead, I just stared at the ceiling until my parents got home.

Their wedding anniversary is the 4th of July, so most of my childhood Fourths were spent at my grandmother's, sleepless. But there was a nice view of fireworks from her apartment, and she always had a coffee chiffon pie chilling in the fridge. Plus, we could watch TV later than normal, and one year I remember watching PBS and hearing one of the talking heads describe someone with the power to levitate people. I was precocious enough to know the word levitate, but I didn't know the word that described her technique. My grandmother didn't know either, so the next day I asked my parents.

ME: What's fellatio?
MOM: What?!
ME: What's fellatio?
MOM: Where did you hear that word?
ME: At Grandma's.
MOM: ---
ME: I was watching TV and this guy said this woman was so good at fellatio that she could levitate a man.
MOM: Oh. Oh. Hmm.
ME: So what's fellatio?
MOM: That's not something to worry about right now.
ME: Come on, what is it?
MOM: When you're older.

Shortly thereafter, I went to our Websters Unabridged Dictionary, but fellatio is a hard word to spell. I tried filachio, falachio, even phalashio, but no dice. By the time I found a friend who might know the answer, I'd forgotten the word.

* * *

Meaghan just walked in and saw me blogging.

HER: "A duck could be somebody's mother," huh?
ME: Yeah. It started out as the Fourth of July, turned into blowjobs.
HER: (smiles, sighs, and walks away in a motion I seem to inspire an average of twice a day)
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Oh what a daay it was
Yesterday my cell-phone rang before I'd put the cover on my coffee, so in my haste to answer, I spilled hot coffee all down the front my pants. I cleaned up as much as I could, but it definitely looked like I'd lost control of my bladder. Next I went to ask someone a question, came back, and immediately spilled hot coffee down my shirt. Turns out I had put the cover on, just not all the way. At home, oblivious to how my day's luck was shaping up, I decided to test out my new beard trimmer and proceeded to shave off most of my goattee by accident. I decided to wait another day before attempting to juggle four chainsaws.
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Respect the hat
"[Lance] Berkman threw his helmet to the ground after being called out, and was immediately tossed by first base umpire C.B. Bucknor. [Phil] Garner rushed onto the field and was ejected after throwing his cap to the ground at the end of a long argument." (AP)

I'm glad Major League Basbeball is finally cracking down and enforcing its zero tolerance policy on abuse against hats. How about a constitutional amendment to make sure they keep up the good work?
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Adventures with avatars
Yahoo doesn't give you a whole lot of options in desgining your avatar. I tried to add 40 lbs to mine, but the avatars are in too good a shape to keep the weight on. And my style of dress wasn't completely represented -- not Dan 5.0, 5.2, 6.0, or whatever number we're up to (Dan 6.0.1 sounds about right, although I wonder if we should distinguish between summer and winter versions). In any case, I think I did a fairly decent job of capturing my essence in avatar form:





Another of my complaints with the avatar-maker is that they don't allow you to fully mess it up. I half-wanted coffee stains on my shirt, or giant clown feet, or at least fat Elvis hair. But no, the options are limited, and so when you zoom out to to reveal the full-sized image, you see that I did all I could. Which means I'm in a library with a horse and a pig.



They also don't let you add a thought bubble that says "I'M AWESOME" but I guess that would just be redundant.
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Johnny: "BOOOO!!"; Pedro: "YAAAAY!!"

• I'd explain why I lustily booed Johnny Damon's return to Fenway and why I heartily cheered Pedro's last night, but Meaghan sent me this article, which is so dead on that I have nothing to add. Except this: Johnny was more than just a sex symbol to the "pink hat crowd"... but would I trade him straight up for Kevin Youkilis? You betcha, and not just because he's the most promising baseball Jew since Shawn Green.
• Gotta get the dog reading my blog more. Not eight hours after I defended his chasing the cats as playful, he decided to attack them ON THE BED WHILE WE WERE SLEEPING. I joined the fight in progress as a cat clawed at my head for cover and the dog barked and lunged toward my face. I'm not convinced the dog is fully dumb, but he sure ain't smart.
• Cleaned up the blogroll for the first time in months. Deleted a surprising number of dead links, removed reciprocal linkage to those who no longer link here, and merged most link-tier variations. For instance, any blogging friend or blogger I have regularish contact with is now part of the Axis of Awesome, and everyone else has also been deemed appropriately awesome. Rejoice.
• Within in the past week, it crossed my mind that Peter Gammons is kind of old and may not be around forever, and I got sad to realize his brilliant analysis and insider information would only be finite. So I almost feel like I caused his brain aneurysm somehow. If that's true, then hopefully I can cure him, too: get better, dude!
• A weird song's entered my heavy rotation lately: "Body Count" off Ice-T's OG: Original Gangster album. I remember hearing it in high school and figuring that when Body Count's full album came out it would be the greatest thing ever recorded. Of course, it was just a bad approximation of metal with heavy distortion, mean posturing, and no good hooks. But this is more punk, both in style and production value (and in insipid lyrics), and the hooks are stupdendous. I'm on a twice a day diet at present.
• Ebay auction + $2.44 = Circus Atari arriving via US Mail very soon...

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Screw you guys, I'm going home
From: Prexy43 [Bush]
To: LiberalJerkwad [Tobin]
Subject: my way or the highway

You know what? It's my ball, and if you don't want to play by the rules -- my rules -- I'm taking my ball and going home to Crawford.

First and most importantly, we're screwed. ANOTHER constitutional amendment failed, so I guess it's open season on the nation's flags. Alby G's been picking up Verizon chatter about Al Qaeda going on a burning spree, and thanks to the Terrorcrats, now we're powerless to punish this meaningless symbolic act more stiffly than premeditated homicide. Good job, douchebags! The American left who hate America, pray for failure in Iraq, and blindly hate my gorgeous ass are once again following Osama's orders to the hilt. Because to update my rhetoric, if you're not with us, you're a terrorist. Simple as that.

Seriously, though, how can America be SO out of touch with me? We try to protect the country from fags and flags both flaming out, and everyone stays all hung up on Iraq and gas prices and their ever-decreasing list of civil liberties. DON'T YOU REALIZE THAT INNOCENT PIECES OF CLOTH ARE IN DANGER?! You know, if anyone since 1973 still thought flag burning was a relevant act of protest.

So we've got that going against us. Then there's The New Dork Times acting like journalists are supposed to keep the government accountable for their actions. Really, since when? Clinton got a total free ride from the press. Me, I can't even steal phone records of innocent Americans without it becoming a big production number. For almost two weeks! Now you've got the Times feeling empowered enough to expose a shady War on Terror scheme everyone already suspected we were using. I think we need to reexamine how much glasnost is too much glasnost in this republik.

Well, at least there's good news out of North Korea. D'oh! Why do thay always act like the kid who waits until the bully's out of breath to kick him in the nads? Hey, Il' Kim, don't think we won't send whatever troops aren't already fucking up the rest of the Axis of Evil. Which at this point I guess would be the post office and some crossing guards. But they are BAD-ASS MAILMEN, so watch it.

It's just hit after hit after hit, and well over 60% of the country has been hating on me for months and months. Have you already forgotten that tax rebate I gave everyone in 2001? If you all don't start getting with the program, I'm gonna go chop some wood and give Mr. Cheney the other 5% control of the country. Seriously. You can go get your own ball.

-W


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New job is going just fine, thanks
A coworker walks up to Dan Tobin.

HER: Are you busy or just faking it?
ME: Mmm, little of both.
HER: Hahahahaha.

Big smiles as she walks away and I go back to catching up on a few months worth of This Modern World archives.
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Cats and dogs living together!


DAN: So now that we're closing in on a full month with the dog, I thought I'd check in with you kitties, see how you're doing.
TROUT: Oh, are you talking to us? Did you hear that, Spoon? He's talking to US.
SPOON: Wow, what an honor! I didn't know you talked to cats any more.
TROUT: Can you imagine -- paying attention to us!
SPOON: You up for some purring?
TROUT: Sure! I mean, he's TALKING to us!
DAN: Guys...
SPOON: "Guys"?! We're GIRLS, okay? That thing in the other room is a guy.
TROUT: Sorry if we can't join your little male bonding party.
DAN: Sounds like you're not loving the dog.
SPOON: Well, gosh, where would you ever get that idea?
TROUT: Did you maybe pick up on something the third time he tried to kill me? Or was it the fourth time?
SPOON: Telling a big brown fuzz-ball not to eat the cat hasn't been so in vogue since Alf was in primetime.
DAN: What are you, Jay Leno?
SPOON: It's not like I can coast on my fuzziness any more.
DAN: Look, Watson is not trying to kill you.
TROUT: Yeah? How's the spacebar on your computer?
DAN: Fine.
TROUT: On the laptop you're borrowing from Zoe?
DAN: Well, okay, that's not so good.
TROUT: No, because it couldn't withstand a 52-pound behemoth jumping on it while CHASING ME TO KILL ME.
DAN: He was just playing.
TROUT: Like Lenny played with the puppy in Of Mice and Men?
DAN: Seriously, how do you even know to make that reference?
TROUT: I'm a cat. I read all mouse-related books.
SPOON: I prefer to read about tuna.
DAN: Well, Meaghan and I have really liked having Watson around.
TROUT: Gee, you'd never know it.
SPOON: At least he smells awesome. And I bet you love how he goes crazy at 3 am.
TROUT: You should train him to fetch your slippers. You know, right after you train him not to crap in the middle of the living room.
DAN: Well, let's see... who crapped on our bed last week?
TROUT: You shut me in the bedroom all day! With HIM!
DAN: I'm just saying, accidents happen.
SPOON: This was no accident! This is a concerted effort by the white man to keep the cat in mental slavery!
DAN: Where are you guys getting this stuff?
TROUT: WE AREN'T GUYS!!
DAN: Okay, you need to chill.

(pulls out catnip, which the kitties eat right up)

DAN: The dog's not so bad, is he?
TROUT: Hey, man, we're just looking for some love, you know?
SPOON: It's like, how'd he get a person name?
TROUT: Spoon, Trout... Watson?
SPOON: Spout, Troon...
TROUT: Don't bogart the nip.
SPOON: Dude, my paws look HUGE.
TROUT: Yeah.
SPOON: Huh huh.
TROUT: I can't feel my tail.
SPOON: HUH HUH!
DAN: Think we can all get along?
SPOON: Just keep the dog out of our litter box. Huh huh huh.
DAN: I'll do what I can.
TROUT: Dude, how good would some cat food taste right now?
SPOON: Oh, we are so there! HAHAHAHAHA!
TROUT: You are so lame. HAHAHAHA!
DAN: Nice.
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Malapropismo
Today the liberry woman tried to explain how she gets fixated on certain things and stopped just short of saying she gets asphyxiated on them. She was talking about lamps.
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Cream of the Crop
When I lost my computer, I lost my playlists. Thanks to several tactics of varying degrees of nerdery, I've been able to recover most of the music, and also to reconstitute (and update) the all-important Cream of the Crop playlist. It's my top 100 of all time, which is of course 126 long. So just to have it on file, and also to let the world know what exactly floats my proverbial boat, I present the Cream of the Crop as it stands at this moment:

"(Do Not Feed the) Oyster," Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks
"(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction," Devo
"#1 Hit Song," Minutemen
"21 Days in Jail," Magic Sam
"Alive," Pearl Jam
"B Side Wins Again," Public Enemy
"B.Y.S.," Gang Starr
"Blind Hope," Son Volt
"Bo Diddley," Bo Diddley
"Boogie Chillen [1948 version]," John Lee Hooker
"Boys Are Boys and Girls Are Choice," The Monks
"Buena," Morphine
"Building Steam with a Grain of Salt," DJ Shadow
"Call Me D-Nice," D-Nice
"Can I Kick It? [Spirit Mix}," A Tribe Called Quest
"Code of the Streets," Gang Starr
"Come Running," Van Morrison
"Crazy Rhythms," The Feelies
"Decide," The Feelies
"Deep Fascination," The Feelies
"Deep Fascination [Live at the Bottom Line]," The Feelies
"Don't Believe the Hype," Public Enemy
"Down by the River," Neil Young & Crazy Horse
"End Theme [Live at Madison Square Garden]," Elvis Presley
"Excursions," A Tribe Called Quest
"Faded [Innocent Criminals: Live]," Ben Harper
"Fattening Frogs for Snakes," Sonny Boy Williamson
"Fight the Power [Film Version]," Public Enemy
"Freddie's Dead," Curtis Mayfield
"Funky President (People It's Bad)," James Brown
"Gimme All Your Lovin'," ZZ Top
"Gold Soundz," Pavement
"Gonna Fly Now (Theme from Rocky)," Bill Conti
"Green Onions," Booker T & the MG's
"Handbags and Gladrags ["The Office" Closing Theme]," Big George
"Handbags and Gladrags ["The Office" Opening Theme]," Big George
"Hear My Train a Comin' [Acoustic]," Jimi Hendrix
"Heart and Soul," T'Pau
"Help Me Rhonda," The Beach Boys
"Hey Jude," The Beatles
"Higher Ground," Stevie Wonder
"Highway to Hell," AC/DC
"Hip Hop Hooray," Naughty by Nature
"Hip Hug-Her," Booker T & the MG's
"Honey Hush," Johnny Burnette Trio
"Hoogie Boogie," John Lee Hooker
"I Am the Walrus," The Beatles
"I Am Trying To Break Your Heart [From the film "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart"]," Jeff Tweedy
"I Changed My Mind," Lyrics Born/Poets of Rhythm
"I Come Off," Young MC
"I Left My Wallet in El Segundo," A Tribe Called Quest
"I Saw Her Standing There," The Beatles
"I Want Your Sex, Pt. 1," George Michael
"I'll Be Back [From Anthology 1]," The Beatles
"I'm Always in Love [Live at the Lounge Ax]," Jeff Tweedy
"In This House That I Call Home," X
"It Takes Two," Rob Base & DJ E-Z Rock
"It's a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock 'N Roll)," AC/DC
"It's Getting Hectic," The Brand New Heavies
"Jack-Ass," Beck
"Jr. Blues," Junior Kimbrough
"Jump Around," House of Pain
"Jumper on the Line," R.L. Burnside
"Just a Friend," Biz Markie
"Kamera, [From the film "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart"]," Wilco
"Know How," Young MC
"La Di Da Di," Doug E. Fresh & the Get Fresh Crew
"Last Night," The Mar-Keys
"Louder Than a Bomb," Public Enemy
"Marquee Moon," Television
"Master of Puppets," Metallica
"Mattress," Fela Kuti
"Midnight in a Perfect World," DJ Shadow
"Mistadobolina," Del the Funkee Homo Sapien
"Moanin' at Midnight," Howlin' Wolf
"Moon Rocks," Talking Heads
"Mother Popcorn," James Brown
"My Heart and the Real World," Minutemen
"No Matter What Shape (Your Stomach's In)," The Ventures
"On Fire [Remix]," Tone-Lõc
"Once in a Lifetime," Talking Heads
"One," Metallica
"One-Sided Love Affair," Elvis Presley
"Paid in Full," Eric B & Rakim
"Papa Don't Take No Mess, Pt. 1," James Brown
"Pass the Peas," The J.B.'s
"Pimpin' Ain't Easy," Big Daddy Kane
"Pink Flag," Wire
"Pink Moon," Nick Drake
"Please Don't Leave Me," Fats Domino
"Pump Up the Volume," M/A/R/R/S
"Rawhide," Link Wray & the Raymen
"Reuters," Wire
"Rocket," Smashing Pumpkins
"September Gurls," Big Star
"She Don't Mind That," Harvester
"Shine On You Crazy Diamond, Pts. I-V," Pink Floyd
"Smokestack Lightnin'," Howlin' Wolf
"Sound of Da Police," KRS-One
"Stone Free [Live at the Fillmore East]," Jimi Hendrix
"Straightface," Son Volt
"Subterranean Homesick Blues," Bob Dylan
"Super Bon Bon," Soul Coughing
"Superstition," Stevie Wonder
"Surfin' Bird," The Trashmen
"Take Me to the River," Talking Heads
"Take the Skinheads Bowling," Camper Van Beethoven
"That's All Right," Elvis Presley
"The Commercial," Wire
"The Fitted Shirt," Spoon
"The Good the Bad and the Ugly," The Ventures
"The Humpty Dance," Digital Underground
"The Late Greats," Wilco
"The Militia," Gang Starr
"The Right Time," Ray Charles
"There It Is," James Brown
"They Reminisce Over You," Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth
"Time for a Witness," The Feelies
"Tomorrow Never Knows," The Beatles
"Twist and Shout," The Beatles
"Voodoo Chile (Slight Return) [Live at Woodstock]," Jimi Hendrix
"Walk, Don't Run," The Ventures
"What's the Frequency, Kenneth?," R.E.M.
"When the Levee Breaks," Led Zeppelin
"Where You'll Find Me Now," Neutral Milk Hotel
"You Really Got a Hold on Me [Live at the BBC]," The Beatles
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Thurpdates

• I bought the Atari purely for the connector attached to it, then left that connector attached to the bar's TV in upstate New York. So if I want to hook up the Atari at home, I'll need to buy that same connector. Again. Which could possibly enter me into a loop whereupon I acquire an infinite number of Ataris.
• The woman who previously used the word "liberry" today used the word "libarian." So officially not my fault.
• Found out the shirt I spilled coffee and ink on is "hand wash," but it may as well say "garbage." After all, #13 here is "hand wash" and that hasn't gone so well.
• Congrats to the Heat on their first title. Unfortunately, Shaq celebrated the championship by smashing a watermelon on NBA commissioner David Stern's head, killing him instantly. Yes, folks, the NBA is still fantastic.
• Skipped out on two of my final three coffeehouse shifts and I've got a new lease on life. After collecting probably two full years' worth of unemployment compensation over my seven-year California adventure, who'd ever have predicted that I'd feel so energized to work only an 8-hour day?
• I have played almost all of these abominations on a PC emulator. The best by far is the Kaboom ripoff in which you play two naked women with open mouths catching the semen of a masturbator at the top of the screen. What makes it all the more disturbing and brilliant is that the noise signaling a fresh ejaculation is the same sound effect you hear when Pacman runs into a ghost. In some ways that ruins Pacman forever. And in other ways, it makes it a whole lot better.

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You can't spell ADD without dantobindantobin... or can you?
Afternoon meeting and my ADD is running wild. We're editing a chart of job distinctions, but I'm still learning my new position, so I don't have much to contribute on how it should change. (More nachos?) I can't manage to feign interest and the meeting is too small for me to doodle. I try the old French class trick of resting my head on my hands in a way that shades my face so nobody sees my eyes are closed. But it didn't fool Madame Cole, and I can't imagine it's working here. I try to focus on the chart.

"I'm not sure that 'maintains' is the right verb in this case..."

I notice a complicated beard attached to its owner's sideburns. I also notice a mustache disconnected from both. It's just kind of floating there, loose. I become slightly agitated. My ADD is running wild.

Joke opportunities arise, but my workplace humor relies on a certain amount of subversion and this is not the place. I'm not Andy Kaufman or anything, but when the floating mustache man insists the chart should be expanded into four dimensions, I want to bring up A Wrinkle in Time. I think he's suggesting a tesseract, and it's a good chart, but I'm not sure it's worth sacrificing the very fabric of space-time itself.

Earlier in the morning, I donned a new yellow shirt, then proceeded to spill coffee all over it before I'd even gotten off the train. Once at work, I waited almost an hour before drawing a big blue line on the pocket. I discovered this at a meeting attended by a very cute girl I've been told has a crush on me. The meeting was cut short when the girl had to have her diaper changed. Shitty.
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I'm more of a Missile Command guy myself
ME: Okay, so it looks like if you want to have the World Cup playing in the bar, our only hope is to buy an antenna.
HIM: You mean, like, rabbit earst?
ME: It's worth a try.
HIM: Okay, let's check that place.
ME: Hi, do you have a TV antenna?
HER: Right there.
ME: Great. And do you have the coaxial input for it?
HER: Hmm... well, we had one this morning. I just put it on the Atari. But I can take it off for you.
ME: That would be great.
HER: (pulls out Atari 2600) It's brand new, just took out of the package this morning.
ME: Awesome.

(a moment)

ME: How much for the Atari?
HER: Dave?
DAVE: I don't know, twenty bucks?
ME: Got it.
HER: You want it?
ME: ...nah, I shouldn't.
DAVE: Ten bucks. And it comes with paddles.

And that's how I obtained the second Atari 2600 of my life. Unfortunately, it only came with Pacman, so I'm off to ebay now to buy the #1 game for that system: Circus Atari.



All you Pitfall, Kaboom, and River Raid fans can step off. Clowns on teeter-totters popping balloons are where it's AT.
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I scored a 1.1 on my SAT

• Our dog does not like the Snausages we bought for him, so I asked my sister-in-law if her dogs would eat them. She laughed and laughed. A few nights later, I was walking her dogs and one of them tried to eat a light bulb. I got it.
• Sometimes I wonder if I like the Miami Heat for the wrong reasons. Dwayne Wade is graceful and clutch, but I like that he always looks like he just woke up. Shaq is the most dominant big man maybe ever, but I can only think of the New Yorker article in which his friend comes home from the grocery store and Shaq immediately smashes AN ENTIRE WATERMELON over his head. Go Heat!
• Tuesday and Friday, then I retire as barista champion. Got a nifty promotion at Job #1, with enough bump in pay and status to elevate it simply to Job. Of course, that also means I actually have to work at work, thus the infrequent updates... but the blogging will find a way; it always finds a way. Anyway, two more shifts until I make my final latte.
• Actually not really, courtesy of this sexy piece of homeware our thieves were too provincial to know to steal:
  
  
• The other day, I purposely referred to the "liberry" in conversation with someone. She proceeded to reference the liberry over and over again, and I couldn't tell if she was just being polite, or if I'd happened to encourage her natural mispronunciation. Which made me feel bad, for all intensive purposes.
• HER: Why do you pronounce it do-sie-do? It's do-see-do.
  HIM: I don't know. It's from something.
  
  And no, we weren't square dancing. Yes, there was a bluegrass band calling a square dance, and sure, everyone around us was square dancing, and okay, we were arranged in a square and were dancing... but at our skill level, we barely qualified as a mosh pit.
• Wrote an email on a job-seeking friend's behalf and couldn't resist working the word "poop" into the first sentence. You can dress me up...

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Read nothing but Readers Digest jokes this weekend
Q: What's gray, has four legs and a trunk?

A: A mouse on vacation.

Real post later.
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Fresh content because you deserve better
Job situation evolving, only have one computer at home, and we're away this weekend. All good for the life, bad for the blog. Lucky for all of you I wrote this post last week and forgot to post it. More soon(ish).

* * *

Never judge a man until you've walked a mile in his adolescent karaoke recordings. The time was 1992, the place was Six Flags during a band/chorus/orchestra trip, the song was Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock 'n Roll." Chronologically by verse: Jay Dugré (of LA's TROOP!), Mike Duffy (owner of Karma Coffeehouse), Chris White (aka Paul Hullaballoo of The Cringe), and Dan Tobin (mastermind of 365 Dumps). A photo snapped days earlier:


(Chris, Dan, Mike Laurino who showed up 5 minutes too late to make it on wax, Jay, Mike D.)

Meaghan assumed I was behind the high-voiced madness, but I'm actually the second-most annoying one on this recording, the 16 year-old crying, "Bug-out time!" and later using a certain five-letter word that would keep the recording from being played throughout the amusement park. We played our "demo tape" for the rest of the band geeks on the bus, and when I was heard crying, "Eat licorice sticks, touch my penis!" at the end, the bus erupted. Our high school principal was on that bus, and he came over almost immediately: "I'd like to mange you guys as a singing group..." I think that tells you a lot of what you need to know about my high school experience. Others might get detention; we became folk heroes. (Incredibly dorky folk heroes.)

I'll never stop laughing at Jay's tentative read on "Just take those old records off the shelf," and it just amuses the hell out of me how thoroughly the whole thing devolves without ever abandoning the song. Why, it may even be of entertainment value even to someone who didn't sing on it! But hey, decide for yourself. I already know it's awesome.

Virtual Reyality '92!
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