On Friday, I went to see my family doctor on some minor matters, one of which was a stubborn rash on my ankle that over the counter medicines were not helping. He gave me a prescription for a cream that might do the trick as long as I followed the intructions.

I stopped at Kroger to fill the prescription and while I was waiting, I wandered the aisles looking for bargains and marked down merchandise. I found some blueberry cream cheese bagel spread that was marked down from 3.49 to 1.49. Checking the expiration date, I saw why. I found the ’sell by’ date to be December 19 and this was the afternoon of the 18th. 

I don’t know when an expiration date officially starts.  If it starts at midnite of the date printed on the label then this would mean I had less than 12 hours to eat the damn stuff. if it expired at the end of the day, then I had roughly 35 hours to eat the eight ounces in the container; a herculean task.  I decided to pass.

I went on my way past the bread aisle where I spied a rack of Pepperidge Farm Bagels ON SALE. They were the ‘everything’ variety; my favorite and I immediately took this to be an omen that some higher power wanted me to buy the blueberry bagel spread. So I did, along with the on sale bagels. 

Yesterday morning, the 19th, I took a shower and applied the creme to my rash. (I bet you thought I was going to tell you that I put the bagel spread on my rash, weren’t you?)  Then I decided I had better get to work on the bagels. I popped one into the toaster after manually splitting it with a knife. I have to do this because my wife, Susie, broke my Bagel slicer some time back and has never bothered to replace it.

While waiting on the bagel to toast, I picked up the literature on the rash cream. A paragraph headed with the word ‘Warning’ jumped out at me and I began to read.

‘Do not use cream in eyes, ears, nose , mouth and a private part that I don’t have.’ (If you really need to know what it is, e-mail me and I’ll send you the first letter of the part; nothing more.)  The warning also stressed a thorough washing of hands after applying the cream. 

Uh-Oh. I could be in trouble, not being able to remember how thoroughly I had washed my wands. Good Lord, I had TOUCHED that bagel now getting brown in the toaster. Not only had I touched it, I had wallered it around trying to slice it without cutting myself. I recently had heart surgery, you know and I take a blood thinner to keep my blood flowing. So naturally, I’m careful around sharp objects. 

What to do? What to do?  The possibly tainted bagel had cost around fifty cents. I hated to throw it aaway. My miserly ways just wouldn’t allow it. Still, my inclination towards Howard Hughes and his wacko tendencies told me I’d never eat it.

Howard won out. I threw the damn bagel in the trash, scorching my fingers in the process on the hot poppy seeds. Fifty cents down the drain. I went to the kitchen sink and scrubbed my fingers with a Brillo pad.

I want one widget to charge all of my devices. Period. You can’t tell me that the charging technology is so revolutionary (i.e. proprietary) that there can’t be a universal solution to charge my phone, camera, watch, and whatever technological didgeridoo that I own. The problem has become quite apparent as I prepared for my recent international trip. As I packed my bag, I realized I needed to bring six yards of cables, a quart-size bag of AC adapters, and a travel adapter brick that barely fits in my hand (because countries can’t even agree on a single universal design). WTF?

My television has a remote, my VCR (shut it) has a remote, my DVD (not blue-ray) has a remote, my Xbox has a remote, my…YIKES! That’s a lot of effin’ remotes, not to mention double/triple-A batteries. Luckily (and Gandalf would be happy to know) someone back in 1987 created one remote to rule them all—the coveted universal remote. Whaaaaaa? Oh yes, my friend. With one remote, I can control several devices. “That’s absurd! How is that even possible?” It’s possible because someone or some group of ones realized how inconvenient and ridiculous it was to own multiple remotes. Thank you smart people.

Now, in an age when I can pretty much control anything with technology, the smart ones are focusing their efforts elsewhere. How do I know this? Because I am unable to utilize a single piece of technology with my multitude of techy geekiness. Really, I’m not asking for world peace, the solution to world hunger, a time machine, or even an interception-free game for Cutler. Nope, I’m simply asking for one cable and one adapter that I can plug into the wall (regardless of country) and power up my energy-sucking device. It doesn’t even have to be eco-green. I just want it to work. I’ve seen some attempts. Zip-linq’s battery charger with its six different adapters for phones; Griffin’s PowerBlock for MP3 players; and Targus’ lithium charger. These are great, but not one for all. (Read this next quote like some whiny effin’ know-it-all nerd) “But many devices are all USB powered.” Hey, that’s great. Then why can’t I charge my iPhone 3GS with the adapter that came with my iPod? “Well technology keeps changing.” Yes it does. That’s part of the problem. Too many someones are designing for now and not the future. Too many someones are competing with one another for the next best thing. Too many someones are not talking to each other.

What I need is for all those tech someones out there to pull their heads out of their posteriors, set the dislike for competition to the side, and agree on a single means of charging their devices.  You’ll still sell a gazillion e-dealibobs. In no way am I asking you to forgo your right to make a dollar. I’m simply asking for a consumer-minded truce. Is it really that hard? I mean, if they can put a man on the moon, they can surely create a universal charging solution.

http://www.uexpress.com/dearabby/?uc_full_date=20091216

A few points;

• You are rubbing peoples noses in your money you stinking Howells.
• “Now we wonder where all our former guests disappeared to?” This is passive-aggressive bullshit that wears thin with most people (like the kind of people who have actual friends).
• Now that you are feeling lonely, just spend some money and your friends will reappear.
• No one really likes you so no lavish party=no friends.
• You know you are too snobby for hamburgers.

And as for ABXX’s mindbending statement!!!!!!!!!!!

“But if my mail is any indication, it also appears many people have “forgotten” that there is a social obligation that goes with accepting invitations, and that the guests must reciprocate with an invitation of some sort in return.”

Realize this TIMES HAVE CHANGED!!!

DO NOT OFFER A GIFT IF YOU HAVE SOME STINKING ULTERIOR MOTIVE!

DEAR ABBY: My husband and I are in our 80s. For many years we used to entertain during the holidays. Now we wonder where all our former guests have disappeared to.

Our annual parties grew to include more than 80 friends. Dinner was prepared by a chef; we had a bartender and a pianist. People said they looked forward to those gatherings year after year.

We never expected anyone to entertain us in the same way, yet even being asked out for hamburgers would have been such a treat. Very few reciprocated in any way except to bring a few bottles of wine. We miss them and wonder if people realize that a simple get-together is always appreciated. — FOOD FOR THOUGHT, SPARKS, NEV.

DEAR FOOD FOR THOUGHT: Some of the guests you entertained so beautifully may have been intimidated because it was done on such a grand scale. But if my mail is any indication, it also appears many people have “forgotten” that there is a social obligation that goes with accepting invitations, and that the guests must reciprocate with an invitation of some sort in return.

I got this from a guy named Gus and if this picture doesn’t sum up the whole Peace Prize joke, then nothing ever will. 

Came across this little item today. To Bad neither Tater nor any of the guys who hung out at his station are still alive. I would love to have told them about this.  

Geez. I thought it was bad when my cousin in Kentucky married his blow up doll, Wanda. He gave her an air compressor for a wedding present. Wonder what this guy will do.

News is information about recent and important events. So why do I keep hearing about Tiger’s infidelities? On the radio, “Another woman comes forward…”; on the tele, “Tiger’s misfortune continues…”; in my feeds; in my sock drawer; everywhere I turn. Hey folks, I got a headline for you: Tiger’s personal life is not news (It may be recent, but it sure as shizam ain’t important). Not only that, it’s none of our business.

“Well, what about his fans? He’s a role model.” I’m sorry, did I miss something? He can’t inspire young boys and girls to play golf anymore because of his personal crisis?

“What about his sponsors? And all those people who have stock in the companies he represents? Did they hire him because he knows how to play golf, or because he is a family man? Hmm, golf. I doubt white-collar Hank is putting down his clubs, givin’ up the game, because Tiger did what he did.

Whenever I see stories that pry into the lives of high-profile people—be it actors, athletes, authors, w/e—it irks me to no end that people actually get upset. “It’s an atrocity. I will never buy a Tiger Woods nine iron again.” Ridiculous. “That club represents all that is bad with the world.” Really? That friggin’ metal rod is less of a product because the person sponsoring it doesn’t live up to your personal moral standards? Wow. I guess all those Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa, and Mark McGwire bats are worthless. Come to think of it, I haven’t been able to hit a baseball when I use a slugger with their name on it. Darn you athletes!

“Why did you bring up those baseball stars? They are legitimate news stories.” Indeed they are ace in the bung. Those three guys were sports stories because they messed with the game. But you know what happened to those stories? Some tabloid, TMI paparazzi fotog/faux-journalist hung outside the sport’s figures home, rummaged through their trash, and dug up garbage (which by definition is what is inside trash). Then the story became Mark blah blah blah, or Sammy is blah blah blah, or Barry…you get the point. If an athlete does something to eff with the sport, there’s a story. If an actor screws over a production, that’s a story. If a government official goes to Argentina to meet up with his mistress, that’s a story. When the news branches to other aspects of the individual’s life, there is no story. That info is private.

You can’t tell me that you’ve lived the perfect life.  Let’s say (for the sake of my rant) you’re a bank teller who cheated on your spouse. Does anyone but your spouse/family care that you’re a cheater? No. Will the local paper report on the story? Unlikely. Then why do you care when high-profile peeps do it? Let’s continue with you as said a-hole under the assumption that the world cares. So, your escapades get out and the news gets a hold of it. Before long you’ve lost your job, your name is excrement, your priest is visiting you on a daily basis and Inside Edition wants to run a piece on your ability to work as a drive-thru teller due to your shady family values. Did I mention that your childhood friends are coming forward about the time you blew up frogs with M-80s? That your seventh grade sweetheart is writing a tell-all book on your lousy relationship? That the ASPCA is investigating your ability to own a cat? WTF? That’s what happens. “Oh, but Tiger…” Shut it. I don’t care what Tiger did. I don’t care what that guy with 50 kids did, I don’t care about Hulk Hogan’s divorce. I don’t care that you cheated on your spouse!

“But it sells.” Yes, it sells because you effin’ idiots are too effin’ nosy to mind your own business. Why don’t you get a job, write a book, lose some weight, stop cheating on your own spouse, and worry about things that concern you?

Get a life.

What happened to Saturday morning cartoons? Voltron, Thundercats, GI Joe, Super Friends, and [insert your favorite cartoon here].  The 80s were prime with shows that captivated imaginations. Granted, the plots were awful and the storylines were weak, but the cartoons demanded your attention. Panthro would say Ho Hum to the toons of today. Computer generated characters with backstories and purpose, teaching life lessons, and making you walk away feeling all learned and stuff. Eek! I hate strongly dislike hate you money hungry jerk wads for giving me Saturday morning garbage. Bratz? Fo really? I’d rather watch a Smurf marathon.  That’s right Yasmin and Cloe, you big-headed Barbie knock offs, you suck. Smurfette and the Strawberry Shortcake would cat fight you into next Sunday. For the record, I don’t have a clue if Bratz is even on TV (don’t you dare Google that for me).  The last I heard/saw, the networks started jamming their cartoon time with news shows leaving cable channels to broadcast the trash they call programming. Wiggles? Eek gad.

I’m a fan of progress. But if a singing vegetable and a child exploradora are what’s hot, I want to be as cold as Chilly Willy. Sure, I’m a responsible adult who should probably be doing better things with his Saturday morning hour. Screw you for judging me. I want good TV back on Saturday. I’ll give you creatons your pre-school (as in before school, not pre-K school, please don’t mention after-school specials. Those will always suck.) cartoons. I want my 80s Saturday. I want to sit down and watch a dancing cowboy promoting nasty orange tasting cereal. I want to go to the playhouse and watch a giant foil ball and a talking genie head. I want a talking piece of legislature informing me that our government sucks. I want crappy storylines that require little to no effort on my behalf.

Before you even begin to comment about using Netflix, Hulu or some other service to watch these shows, let me save you some typing and punch you in the face. I want my shows on TV. I want to roll out of bed and flip through the networks to find comic heroes, roller coaster riding D&D enthusiasts, Rambo, and Space Ghost. Until there is some shift in the grownups that control the focus groups who control the TV shows, I’m stuck.

And all you parents out there that will say, “My kids love it. This is the best! They learn.” Suck it! “You’ll understand when you’re a parent.” Suck it again! I’ll play Saturday morning cartoons on DVD (contradicting my above statement) before I let my kid watch that shitake.

I was thumbing through Ladies Home Journal this morning and came across this little item.

Many women use a round brush that’s too small, says Umberto Salone, celebrity stylist.

My first thought was “too small for what?” Not having the slightest idea, I read on.

A small brush with a one inch barrel works best for chin length hair, shorter layers or if you want to add extra bounce.

Oh, I see. A HAIR brush. But wait, what is chin length hair? How long is a chin, anyway? Obviously, more reading is called for.

Two to three inch barrels are for longer hair and help you to create loose, natural waves.

The things I learn. The few times in my life that I have purchased a hair brush, I never gave any consideration to barrel size.  What will they think of next??

I know my age plays a part in my befuddlement and my midwestern background also probably figures into the equation but neither of those can be pointed to as the primary reason why I don’t understand how a young girl who calls herself lady gaga merited a place on Barbara walter’s most fascinating people of 2009.  I wasn’t going to comment on this at all but it’s just such a mystery to me. I should have just went ahead and took the dog for a walk but it was so damn cold out there. I also suppose I could have watched ‘The Biggest Loser.’ but ABC’s teaser ads had me curious as to who the number one fascinating person would be.  It turned out to be Mrs. Obama which, given the media’s fascination with anything Obama, I should have guessed. Her husband, the President was Barbara’s pick last year and I imagine the children will be next year’s pick. The white house dog should follow in 2011. 

Sorry, Sully. I was pulling for you.

Incidentally, I had not heard of this gaga person  until I saw her on this show and I suppose I won’t hear of her again so I don’t know why I’m concerned. I suppose its because I feel for our younger people if that’s all they have to be fascinated about. In my younger days, we had a few people similar to this girl but they weren’t on any list put together by Barbara Walters. Mostly, we saw them in the Carnival Freak tent where they were penned up and thrown live chickens which they bit the heads off of.  It was much more entertaining than Barbara’s show. I believe we called those creatures ’Geeks’, a term that has since taken on a new meaning.

Continuing the insomniac nature of recent posts, the past 48 hours have seen me achieve a grand total of 90 minutes (approx.) sleep.

This really isn’t on.

As far as side effects go I’m not feeling especially unwell, or weakened at all; rather I find that The Nothing is taking an increasing hold. Constant weariness makes it alarmingly easy to slip into stagnance, and before you know it you’ve spent three hours collapsed in an armchair watching repeats on Dave. Alarming stuff.

To drive the point home I just spent the last hour writing, deleting, re-writing, deleting and repeating paragraph after paragraph before settling on this one. And it’s hardly golden.

To be honest, part of the difficulty I’m having with sleep at the moment is The Thinking. There are certain aspects of my life which I can’t discuss here as of yet, and which demand not only a lot of attention, but also a lot of stoicism and strength; there’s no room for doubt, weakness or vulnerability. Now, I’m not whining. This isn’t a problem, and I’m not moaning about the situation. When I’m awake and pottering about and busying myself with things I’m absolutely fine. In the day I’m absolutely fine.

It’s the nights.

At night there isn’t anything left to occupy my mind; I’m at the whim of my thoughts, and they really do run wild.

Keeping words unsaid and thoughts unthought is fine in the short term, and often necessary, but eventually you need an outlet. It’s why the blogs are trickier at the moment. There are gallons of unmused musings and unwritten writings champing at the bit and straining to run from my fingers onto the screen… but they can’t. Until further notice they have to stay solidly put.

Of course the tricky part right now is not so much keeping hold of those thoughts (a touch of insomnia’s a small price to pay), but rather ushering others around them; getting new ideas and contemplations round the elephant in the brain and onto the page. It’s not easy.
Still, this flow disruption is only temporary, and the water does get through eventually. It takes longer, sure, but it gets through.

The capacity we have for adaptation never fails to amaze me; humans are survivors. We adapt to new circumstance and new necessity, and most of the time we just get on with it. It’s only afterwards we look back and recognize the achievement, only when we’re out of danger can we allow ourselves to break down and cry.

This is what I find frustrating about The Inflexible. We are designed to accommodate change, to move on and to grow and evolve. To stubbornly stick to your own ways in the face of all logic and necessity, to scorn anything new or unrecognizable, to withdraw into your niche with never an attempt to explore or discover; you might as well slit your wrists. We’re defined by change – life IS change; growth, birth, death, flux, transience… folding your arms and refusing to budge for the world’s rotation or the turn of the clock is metaphysical suicide. It’s not cherishing culture, or maintaining tradition, or loving history; it’s cowardice – it’s fear of the new, which ultimately is fear of change, which ultimately is fear of life. Of living.

Fear of living. Suddenly it doesn’t seem so noble. The line between a grumpy, pedantic curmudgeon and an existential shut-in too scared of life to live is a fine one, and any who walk along it too far are bound to cross. Cynicism and sneers can only take you so far.

I suppose that’s what concerns me about The Nothing. The fear that an hour stagnant becomes a day, a day becomes a week, a month a year, a year a life. Too soon I could look up from repeats on Dave to find a world that’s spun beyond me, the last ride gone from the station.

There. As I write this it’s a quarter to two in the morning. Where’d the time go?

Where indeed.

To fight, fly or acquiesce? I can’t see that fleeing would do much good, and I’m damned if I’ll give in. To fight it is. I will bash out the blogs, force out the thoughts, take up the opportunities and achieve what there is to be achieved.

Inactivity be damn’d; growth, adaptation, change and flux… The Nothing shall not have me.

-Brice out.

It’s now been three years since Tim Allan starred in one of the Santa Clause movies and apparently we’re not getting Santa Clause IV this year. It just doesn’t seem like Christmas without seeing Tim Fall off a snow covered roof into the shrubbery. 

I guess I’m gonna have to dig out my VHS version of  ‘Ernest Saves Christmas.’

Can anyone tell me the logic behind the difference in cost between undergraduate and graduate courses? Here’s where I’m coming from. In elementary school, a class of 30 students gets pretty good instruction. Teachers are (should be/I was) readily available to explain any concept that didn’t make sense. The student was the reason the teacher was in the classroom. “Teacher, I don’t get it.” BAM! Answer. “I still don’t get it.” BAM! Answer. Lots of communication between the student and teacher. By middle school and high school, teachers are subject specific. For the most part, students are still the priority. There is a little reluctance to keep the training wheels on, but it is understood that the material is, for the most part, new to the student. After all, why would you expect students to figure it all out by themselves? That’s crazy! No, that’s college.

When you get to college, instructors begin to separate themselves from students. “It’s best for them. They need to start figuring things out for themselves.” Um, no. They may be older, but that doesn’t make them sponges. Oh, can I also insert the bit about tuition costs. Yeah, there’s that. Growing up, I went to Catholic school. My ma had to pay for my education. The option for a free alternative was there, but it was her decision. Now, college is mine. If I want to receive additional education, I must pay for it. Literally and figuratively.  Nowadays, tuition costs are outrageous. Am I really getting that much more instruction than I did when I was younger? Is the process of learning so intense that I should pay $400 or more for every 1-credit hour course($1200 3-hour course for those of you playing along)? Nope. By the time you get to college, you, the student are doing 10 times the work you did in high school and receiving 3/4 of the instruction. When you’re done with your 4-year degree and you want to continue, you better be willing to shell out even more money per credit hour for even less instruction.

Does anyone pay attention to this at all? Is the only reason my graduate tuition is more than my undergrad because my instructors make more money? If that’s the reason, can you tell me why? I’m not receiving a special education (don’t even go there). I’m not getting gold bullion for my efforts. Nope. I’m getting less instruction, more self-exploratory work, and even less feedback than ever.

I’m not saying that all instructors suck. No. There are plenty of good ones. What I’m asking is what’s the difference? I get my early, adolescent, and teenage years for free and the instruction is hands on, in your face, ask-whatever-you-want-and-I’ll-help instruction. Now, I get office hours that aren’t consistent, instruction that is more a coffee shop powerpoint reading, assignments that have me learn the materials myself, and a bank account that is hit up every few months.

Could I learn the same stuff if I went online and taught myself? Yes. Could I get better feedback in online forums than from my instructors, probably. Can I get a job that requires a degree? No. It’s garbage, and someone should do something about it. Sadly, no one will.

Oh the work week. Monday starts off slow. Tuesday is forgotten. Wednesday serves as the ridgeline. Thursday comes with a sixth sense. Friday is a lost cause. Saturday and Sunday miraculously heal the sick. As if you have no idea what I’m talking about, let’s recap the “typical” work week:

• Monday. You arrived to work late, actually started working at 11, got sloppy drunk afterwards, and ended the day searchin’ Red Tube for a good video. You’re a sluff, a wee lazy, a prime candidate for dialysis, a Richard, and you’re nasty. But no, you’re not sick.
• Tuesday. Rolled into work about 5 minutes late, took a long lunch, left early, and stayed up late to watch some 80s TV show. You’re lazy, inconsiderate, have a poor work ethic, and need a new hobby. But no, you’re not sick.
• Wednesday. The one day you show up to work on time, leave when everyone else does, and get to bed at a decent hour. You’re a one-hit wonder. But no, you’re not sick.  
• Thursday. Get up early. Plan your feigning. Show up on time. Tell everyone you’re feeling ill. Fake cough, fake sneeze, and fake sniffle. Tell everyone you’re feeling ill again as the clock runs down. Leave work, head to the bar, pack your bags, go out of town.  You’re a chump, a fraud, a fake, not sick, not sick, and a lazy ace. But no, you’re not sick.
• Friday. Sitting on the beach, in a hotel room, anywhere but where you’re supposed to be. At work, everyone knows you’re an idiot, not a savant—no crystal ball needed.  You’re an idiot and you’re not sick.

So go on with your lazy self. Take the weekend. See you Monday.

This morning was the first time this season that the weather lady gave us the wind chill numbers. “it’s 33 degrees but it feels like its 25.’

To Who? If you’re cold blooded, it probably feels like zero and if you’re warm blooded, maybe you’ll wear a long sleeve shirt.

It’s meaningless information, sort of like anything you hear about Kate Gosselin or Bruce Jenner’s step daughters (I forget their name.) Obviously, I’m not a fan of wind chill readings. It’s just one more thing that I am supposed to carry around in my head in case someone in the checkout lane asks me if I know what the wind chill is. I have enough trouble remembering the things I need to get through my day without that.

I survived the first fifty years of my life without knowing the wind chill even with making that daily 3 mile uphill walk to school in the middle of January. There was none of that ‘feels like 17 degrees’ business. It was either ‘Colder than a well diggers ass.’ or if it was really cold, we used the brass monkey’s genitals as a measure of how the temperature felt. 

It’s way past time to throw wind chill readings on the weather trash pile right along with kno-zone action days.

In the post today came (amongst other items, more of which later) a complementary bottle of Bailey’s Coffee Blend (highly recommended by the way). Not a huge bottle, I grant you, but a bottle nonetheless, and a fine time has been had from’t. My thanks to the kind Celts at Bailey’s Irish Cream for their generosity.

What is it about receiving packages that makes you feel special? Or makes Me feel special, at any rate… though we may have paid ridiculous amounts for it, the very fact that a brown paper parcel with a name on it (or, as in today’s case, nine brown paper parcels with MY name on them) happens to appear on the door-step brings such glee, especially when delivered during advent, that it makes us forget for a moment the harshness of the day or the true cost of the self-imposed-gift is wonderful. Or perhaps it’s just me. Either way, -I- feel good about it…

My flat also has, as of late, a mouse in it. I’ve named him Morris (as frankly the name isn’t widespread enough as it should be… and the alliteration was attractive to me); he seems to spend most of his life scuttling between the oven and the bins. We’ve tried barracading him out, we’ve tried humane mousetraps (and frankly I’d rather have a live mouse than a broken-backed one), but the wily fucker dodges the lot. Good for him. Wise Morris! Wise Morris Mouse.

Sitting on the sofa, watching panels of wood get literally beaten out of place from behind in order to make way for rodential passage gives a certain sense of perspective. Sure, we pay rent; we build; we maintain; we garden; we paint; we pander; we ignore… does this make the property more ‘Ours’? You’d be hard pushed to persuade a mouse he didn’t have the right to squat. The Borrowers seemed to take to it well.

Now, I’m not about to start telling everyone that property is theft and we’re just renting off of nature and so on and so forth, because frankly I’m not a wanker, but… well, it’s a thought isn’t it? I mean the mouse seems happy enough, and I’m damned if I’m going to move him along.

Moving the stream of consciousness along, I’m currently watching ‘Misfits’ on E4; an absolutely excellent piece of programming (not least for the MASSIVE ‘Big Lebowski’ reference it just made). This is what annoys me about the haters who don’t watch television; the ones who, when you ask them why, are all too happy to harp on about how it’s all shit. It’s not. If believing it’s all shit helps you to justify not making an effort, then go for it… but come on… stop the delusion; you’re being a prick.

As is the way with anything, the vast majority is shoddy, cater-to-the-lowest-common-denominator bullshit… but then it has to be! True excellence can only ever exist in the minority, otherwise it’s not above average, it’s just the norm. To sit there in your ivory tower and expect the gems to come to you because… what… because you’re worth it? Because everyone else has an obligation to please you? No. To reap the rewards you have to go out there on your own, wade through the heaps and heaps of tripe and find the gems bare-handed.

It is more than worth it.

If, on the other hand, you simply can’t be bothered then fine; that’s your choice. Good for you. Do not for a second, however, dare to make the assumption that just because you cannot be bothered to search there is nothing worth bothering about. There is. Accept the truth of your motivations and slit the high horse by the throat.

Bailey’s can be got for free; parcels can arrive unexpected; mice can be uplifting members of the household; television (or the internet, or magazines, or any media or art you may care to mention) DOES have wonderful stuff to offer. The only thing getting in the way is you. Accept it or change. Simple as that.

-Brice out.

I just received an important document from the Campbell soup company alleging that a can of Chicken Noodle soup contains 32 FEET of noodles.  That’s about twice what I always surmised to be the total length of the noodles in the can. I would have guessed 15 or maybe 20 but 32???  Unbelievable!!!!

Being from Missouri (figuratively speaking), I opened a can of the soup and laid out the noodles end to end, making one hell of a mess on the kitchen floor.  There was nowhere in our condo where I could produce a 32 feet long  noodle so I had to bend it and force it to go the other way on the floor. 

This was not difficult. It’s easy to bend wet noodles. As a matter of fact, it’s almost impossible not to. Over the years, I have heard unsavory references to wet noodles but never gave them much thought until I set out to prove or disprove Campbell’s claim. 

If you’re interested (and I can’t see how you wouldn’t be), I ended up with about 27 feet of slick, slimy noodle on my messy kitchen floor but the dog was following along behind me and I may have suffered a Hansel and Gretel effect on my experiment.

So this one is a timely gimme of a post. And it’s cliche. But, hey, it’s the night before Thanksgiving, and I’m getting ready to move my cubicle. Plus I get to wake up at the bald crack of dawn to drive to San Antonio. You’ll pardon me if I take the easy way out.

This is how I really feel, both in-game and out.

Anyways, happy Thanksgiving to you all, or, in the spirit of retail corporate America, happy mid-Hallanksmas season. (You know, that mash up of Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas that we’re all so used to seeing at the mall.)

If there’s one thing that real life has taught me, it’s that you gotta be thankful for the little things. Whether it’s knowing where you left your keys or finding out that, yes, you do have two more double-A batteries, innocuous events can really make your day. I’d go on and on gushing about e-mails that changed my life or meeting “the one” when I was least expecting it, but most of you will be putting up with that tomorrow at dinner.

So let’s talk about the little things that make a game. Whether it’s properly adjusted drop rates or a well-designed control mechanism, small things can really make all the difference. Does anyone remember when World of Warcraft started up and the server queues that came with it? We all thought we’d won the lotto when the lines finally died down and we got to play the actually game. Ah, memories…

Now, don’t get me wrong: I actually cannot hold popularity against anyone. I’m just not hip enough. But that’s one of those irking qualities of MMOs that sometimes cause me to question why I bother. But although we’ve all felt that kind of frustration with everything from armor that won’t drop to body campers who won’t log, we all can be thankful for one thing–group of people actually.

Every game has a dedicated team of developers whose job is to make sure that problems are fleeting. So on this Thanksgiving Eve, I’m giving a big shout out to the devs of the gaming world. You guys make it possible, and you deserve some props.

…and now that I’ve sucked up, can I get some free stuff? I kid.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone and a continued merry Hallanksmas season.

I signed up for classes the other day, one of which was an online course. Shortly after, I received an email blast from my advisor telling students that are in my master’s program not to sign up for course X because we do not qualify for the course discount since our program is not a classified as distance. Instead, course X (distance) can only be taken by students in a different, but certified distance program. Ok, so you’re saying to yourself, “What’s the big deal. You can’t take the course, quit whining.” Well, I would stop whining if the course wasn’t the exact same course being offered at the same time by the same instructor.

I can understand if I was given extra instruction, a free book, or some other gimmick attached to the class. Point is, I’m not. This isn’t an online airfare site where I get to complain that the guy next to me paid $100 less than me for the same seat. No, it’s the same friggin’ course.

Think of it this way, I go to the grocery store, and pick out a can of green beans (being its Turkey Day in a few and casserole is on the menu). Another customer grabs the same brand of green beans and puts it in their cart. In order for this to work, the person has to beat me to the line so let’s say I did more shopping and they didn’t. There, the other customer is now ahead of me in line. I notice that they pay 59 cents for their green beans. Hmm, I don’t see a coupon. Don’t see a special club member card. Why isn’t their can of green beans 79 cents a can like mine? Well, I get in line and sure enough, green beans are 79 cents a can. When I ask the clerk, I’m told that the other customer is part of a select group of individuals that qualify for the discount. Because I’m in a different purchasing category, I have to pay more for my green beans. WTF?

All you fallacy folks can stick it. I know my education is not like a can of green beans, nor is it like an online airfare auction site. The fact of the matter is, I should get the same “discount” for my course as my distance counterparts. Will I be in the classroom? No. Will I be using any of the campus resources? No. Does it matter that I’ve raised my concern with everyone attached to the process? No.

Basically, I get to suck it up and pay more for the same effin’ product.

This past weekend I attended my niece’s Sweet 16 Birthday party in Long Branch, NJ.

Incredible how they do things there. I honestly think I’m turning into a curmudgeon, a crusty old fart. After months of planning and incredible expense on the part of my sister and bro-in-law, the party went off very well. Albeit, for a few hours of teenage cool. The kids shook their tailfeathers, the adults mingled, hung close to the bar and chaperoned the drifters.

Being the “Crazy Uncle Bobby” I was obligated to show my moves on the flo’, which I did to the amazement of the youth. I secretly saw all of them practicing my groove in the corners before they attempted in public. Oh, wait… that was my pre-party daydream.

Such a different time and place. This type of party and extravagance is what is EXPECTED where they come from. It validates their status. Here, a BBQ or small house party would be more than enough. (see:Curmudgeon) In my day, all these short skirts would come with bruised tails from their parents from wanting to wear this stuff outside the house. The guys seemed to like it though.

After a few hours of DJ, dancing, ceremony, 3 dress changes, slide show, cake and excess adult beverages for the adults, it was time to call it a night and head back to the normal life. Well done Sis. Great party Jess. Now comes the bill.

There is a story in today’s Indianapolis Star about GM spinoff Delphi defaulting on pensions. This forced the government and its it Pension Benefit Guarantee to take over the payments.  Michelle Wilkes, a 56 year old retiree, has started a campaign from her Carmel, Indiana home to force Washington to guarantee her monthly 3900 dollars instead of the 2800 she is now getting from the Pension Benefit Guarantee agency. 

First of all, I don’t understand why someone  should expect to retire at age 55.  Also, I wish I had a 2800 dollar a month pension. I don’t get a pension at all, electing to save my own  money for old age.  Of course, it doesn’t come anywhere near 2800 dollars a month but then again, none of the companies that I worked for went bankrupt either. 

All this means is that I find myself and a few non-pension dollars of my taxes going to help support this Carmel, Indiana lady and who knows how many others.   

The story also touched on the 60 billion dollar government bailout of GM and how some of that money went to support UAW pensions. Since I am trying not to let things upset me in my old age, I just glossed over that part. It was too confusing anyway.

I’d like to thank  Senior Sports Editor David Sanchirico at The Spectrum for getting Andy Rooney stuck in my head.

One day in the office, someone was being cranky so I told that person he sounded like the notorious staple of CBS’s 60 Minutes. After that, Sanchirico went on an anti-Rooney tangent as they both share the same hometown of Albany, N.Y. and he showed me numerous videos, such as one about computers and typewriters, on YouTube of America’s top curmudgeon that I thought were hilarious.

From there, I’ve discovered “The Andy Rooney Game” on YouTube and spent several hours watching clips spliced together that make Rooney sound even more foolish.

Reflecting back, I’ve come to a conclusion that the 90-year-old Rooney isn’t a journalist like his other 60 Minutes colleagues. He’s a social commentator, who points out things that most people don’t notice in their lives nor less care about. Or he discusses things in his personal life that are not that important like getting rid of his old clothes or whether or not he watches too much football. He doesn’t present anything newsworthy to the program such as other segments of the show.

Some people can be confused by this. A few of my family members consider Rooney as a news source, but I have had to explain to them that what he’s dictating is his take on things, rather than what the actual news.

I think this whole “Rooney Craze” I’m going through may have gone a bit too far, and is starting to leak into my work. May be it is time to lay off this fixation.

or are there hundreds more jewelry store commercials this time of year??

I was in line at the grocery store this morning waiting to checkout and as is my habit, I began to peruse the trash magazines that dominate the checkout lane, stealing attention from the other impulse buys barring my way.  I looked over the headlines hoping to get the latest info on Angelina, Jon and Kate and possibly the balloon boy. Instead, One headline jumped out at me ‘Renee betrayed by Bradley!!’ . What the hell? Who are Renee and Bradley, anyway?

I have a neighbor named Renee and I used to run with a guy we called Bradley (That was his last name, not his first.) and I’m fairly certain these two don’t know one another. 

This penchant that the gossip rags have for only using first names drives me crazy.  How in the hell are us old folks supposed to keep up with who all these one name people are?? 

It’s time to quit doing that so stop it right now.

After spending several days as a snotty, coughy, achy, feverish petri dish, I’m upright once again and ready to continue my grand tradition of blogcrastination. Blogcrastination is a beautiful, versatile, made-up little term. It refers both to blogging when I should be doing something else and to doing something else when I should be blogging. As you might have noticed, I’ve trended a bit more toward the latter lately, the snot factory notwithstanding.

Here’s my trouble: Being given to protracted bouts of curmudgeonly snark, I generally pull up the keyboard only when I’m irked about something. I can be piercing or catty or wittily critical all day long–and we’ll skip the psychoanalysis portion of today’s post, if you don’t mind. Suffice it to say that I hold that humor and martinis are both best served dry, dry, dry, and some folks don’t appreciate the flavor.

I’ve been reading a lot about yoga and meditation lately, and trying my hand at some of it. As I’ve mentioned, I’m boldly going where most rationally inclined, left-brain types never do, trying to pick up a little skill at energy work, and using it to get more deeply acquainted with myself. It’s heady stuff, and feels more true than anything I’ve ever encountered. My guts, my bones, my atoms know that I’m onto something, and I want to learn more.

So I have a conflict: how does an inveterate sarcastic become adept at a practice that’s ultimately rooted in the purest form of love and compassion? How does a judgmental snark become a yogi who really does see and honor that spark of the divine that’s in all of us? I want to have my cake and eat it too… and we all know how that turns out.

I wrote an appropriate, if ever-so-slightly tangential take on this dilemma some time ago over here. It bears repeating.

I haven’t the energy or the inclination to confirm tonight that this quotation is attributed appropriately, but Google tells me that Ezra Pound said, “I have never met a poet worth a damn that was not irascible.” It might amuse you to note that I discovered that gem while idly googling “irascible buddha.” Really, the words just aren’t coming so easily tonight, and I was looking for an easy way out. If the I.B. is a legitimate aspiration, I can throw in the towel right now. Alas, I don’t think it exists. But you have to admit it would make a damn fine band name. I could just take up the guitar with my cake…

Regardless, I’m not saying anything original here. This sort of conflict has been around about as long as abstract thought itself. It’s really just another way of saying that I want to be good and worthy but still get my kicks, too. I want to make the world a better place by having been here, and I want to give it a spanking and put it in time-out for having needed the improvement in the first place. I want to see god in the people around me, but most days I can’t stand to look at them. It’s ultimately hubris, I suppose–I think I can be wholly responsible for The State We’re In, both passively criticizing and actively changing everything around me.

Whatever the reason, it makes for a little blogging problem. I’m here simply to write, a directive that gives quite a bit of leeway. But I’m also conscious of the fact that I have readers, and they may not welcome a steady diet of acrimony and spite, no matter how amusingly worded. Then we get into the sticky territory of policing my own words, which leads right back into that old judge not debate, which gets me after my own tail until I just collapse on the floor. Circular thinking is the drug of choice for intellectual procrastinators–you do a lot of work, but get absolutely nowhere at all. It allows one to maintain the illusion of productivity. And, boy howdy, is productivity one of my golden calves.

Both hard science and woowoo tend to agree that all organisms strive for homeostasis, for balance. Balance implies two or more opposing forces reaching some sort of harmony, not the annihilation of one by the other–which suggests that I can have my dry martini commentary and my unicorns and rainbows. My irascible and my buddha. It’s a hopeful thought.