Spider Sanctuary

Let me begin this return to blogging from inexplicable absence (it's been well over a year) by conceding that I never intended to fall off the planet. God knows I've had loads to talk about. New job. New dog. New house. The combined stress from these three alone have been enough to scramble my cerebral cortex like the haphazard culinary efforts of a local IHOP cook (another missed blog opportunity). Maybe it's an admitted loss of objectivity or humor than I know tends to accompany me when enduring these life stage changes. Silence and the solitude of my own thoughts have always had a strangely therapeutic hold over me. This is probably why all the contrivances of Twitter have appealed to me; there's nothing easier than limiting the scope of your thoughts to 140 characters (@Marklebald, for those of you so inclined). All that to say, I know what it's like to lose your voice, especially when life is the pressure cooker that somehow still hasn't turned your coal into diamonds.

But I had to return, for one, to try something new. With my new HTC EVO (shameless Android plug), I had to try my hand at mobile blogging. FYI, for all its power, this OS' auto-correct feature is making typing take twice as long as normal. Secondly, I had to petition the online masses to see if anyone knows if some obscure arachnid deity exists, because it appears I have angered he/she/it. His royal legginess has apparently unleashed his hoards on my casa of ten months. In just the past few summer months, I've seen wolf spiders big enough to tackle my schnauzers, a tarantula taking residence in the garage, and a black widow chillaxing on the back patio like she's waiting for me to bring her a cosmo. I can only surmise that new construction is the Sandals resorts equivalent for spider-kind. They've even seen fit to invite their cousin scorpions to squat on the premises (read: NOT OK).

Accordingly, I've stocked up on Home Defense and all other anti-critter Ortho products, as well as recruited the professional arachnid assassins. Overkill? Not hardly. There's only so many times that I can explain away my very emasculating discoveries of those "fuzzy bugs". (Brian Fellows, anyone?... No?) My reactions look something akin to an effeminate and epileptic Lindy Hop. And before you judge too harshly, ask yourselves how you would react to seeing these monstrocities. No, I did not lift them from the Clash of the Titans official movie website.

Mister Blogs Slightly More Than a Disinterred Corpse

So it's been a while since my last post, and I'm currently cooking up a more substantial writing, yadda yadda... Well in the mean time, I thought I'd share recent frustrations in the style of Budweiser's timeless marketing campaign, Real Men of Genius.

Here’s to you, mister doesn’t know how to eat chocolate and simultaneously maintain his dignity.

Look, I have a sweet tooth just as badly as the next person. But some people seem to lose their minds when indulging in their favorite confections. The slurred speech, the sultry demeanor, the euphoric eye-twitching… There’s no reason eating chocolate should transform someone into an orgasmic stroke victim. And why do people feel the need to converse with you while they’re unnecessarily prolonging each bite?

AMMMHMMAHMM… Ohmagaw… yu dunno how good thi ith…

Umm, pretty sure I do know. It’s chocolate, not some rare Nepalese delicacy. And we live in America. Pretty sure if you cut one of Uncle Sam’s varicose veins, it will bleed Hershey’s. Seriously, how can you still be surprised at how good chocolate tastes? Please cease and desist with all your When Harry Met Sally moments, because I’m just not convinced.

Here’s to you, mister unnecessarily loud Harley revving in public.

Nothing evokes masculinity like a middle-aged, leather-clad rebel without a cause. I’m still confused as to how you got your family of four to Taco Bueno, but regardless… Is it really necessary to rev your bike in public 7-8 times? I mean, once you turn the key, you should have all the confirmation you need that your engine is in fact running. You made it next to impossible to order from the drive-through the other day.

Yes, I’d like the #3 MexiDip and Chips with a Dr.N-N-N-N-NA-NYUH-NYUH!!!! Umm, sorry, that was a number 3, add a chicken MuchacN-N-NYUH-NA-NEGINA-NYUH-NYUH-NA-NYUH!!!!!!! Forget it, just give me tacos, burritos and a couple driNYUH!!NA-NA-NEGINA-NEGINA-NYUH-NA-NA-NYUH!!!!!!!!

Admittedly, I’ve never been a fan of the crotch rockets, and now I think I know why. I don’t think I could ever ride anything that sounds like a flatulent Greek god.

Here’s to you, mister and mistress inexplicably drawn to bald heads.

Let it be known that baldness does not come with a membership card. There are no secret societies, nor is there frequent fraternization of the follicularly challenged (to my knowledge). So why, tell me why, sir do you feel the need to solicit the chrome-dome camaraderie of me, a stranger? Understandably, it is New Years, and there have been many libations… Just because you are bald and I too am bald does not mean that we have some inherent bond or brotherhood. Therefore, it is unnecessary for us to discuss head shape and shaving technique, because we are not of the same tribe or clan. (Note: you may actually be affiliated with a certain Klan, in which case, we truly have nothing in common. I cannot help you prepare Molotov cocktails, nor am I skilled in etching Confederate flag prison tats.)

Likewise, ma’am… contrary to popular belief, bald heads do not yearn to be rubbed. It’s no crystal ball, no genie’s lamp. I don’t wake up every day secretly hoping my noggin will be fondled by strangely amorous women. Honestly, a simple handshake will do. A bald head is not a helpless, adorable puppy that demands to be doted upon. Awwww, loogadit! Loogada cute wittle bawld headsy-kins! Again, there is usually a certain level of imbibing that has taken place before a cranium grope, but not even lowered inhibitions are enough to excuse this strange infatuation.

Here’s to you, mister grievously deficient in phone etiquette.

While it has been of no consequence to me, sir, you have made it obvious that this telephone interview has been exclusively for your convenience. Over the course of our hour-long conversation, I have had the privilege of overhearing you chew gum, wake the baby with a chorus of clanging pots and pans, yell at the dogs to stop barking, flick your lighter at the first of what would be eight smoke breaks, the squawking of what I'm sure is a malnourished tropical bird, you now yelling at the children, the flushing of a toilet, and the crunching of something with the texture and timbre of Cornnuts. I must say, it has been an utter delight.

Your groggy response when you answered the phone raised the question as to whether you knew the day started before 1:30 PM. After having to compete with Bob Barker for your attention, I am certain that whereas I will carry out my workday in slacks and a button-up shirt, you will more than likely ride out the remaining daylight on your sectional in sweats. Let me assure you that the rest of civilization heretofore has been abuzz with all the telltale signs of life and productivity that consciousness affords.

But I Still Love Technology...

Filling up at $3.79 per gallon hurts. I don’t care if you drive a weed eater to work, you’re going to pay through the nose for gas. People seem to automatically assume that because I drive a hybrid (ahem, Mr. Snooty McSnobberson), I’ve somehow managed to slip through the grip of the oil tycoons. Not so, mein freund. Hybrids are a means of appeasement. They use gas and electricity. Contrary to popular belief, I can’t coast around town on fumes for two weeks. Gas mileage is always a selling point for dealerships, and they wave that 48* MPG under your nose like fresh-baked brownies. There’s always an asterisk. In this case, it means *test conditions achieving 48 MPG were downhill, on ice, in neutral, and being pushed by a tsunami.

The ‘Brid’s über-cool, Earth-huggyness is tempered by several factors. Next to nil horsepower. Strike one. Next to nil capability of transporting large objects. Strike two. A horn that trumpets like Babar, the infirm and emaciated baby elephant. Strike three. I noticed this the other night as I tried to reprimand some idiot who crossed over two lanes of traffic with the urgency of a tranquilized giant sloth. “You freakin idiot! Take this!!!” eeeeeeeEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!! [the horn mysteriously changes pitch, sounding remarkably like Flipper in puberty]

Heaven forbid that I need some work done on the bath toy on wheels. The singular local Honda dealer charges double for oil changes on hybrids, and their service reps remain consistently heavy handed in their douchebaggery. No surprise. With a name like Milo Gordon, you can expect a level of customer service akin to Dell’s outsourced technical support. Have you try turn de computer on? They also come equipped with the personality of potted meat. Hey Dudley Do-Nothing, don’t take it out on me because your boss hasn’t upgraded your OS since Windows 3.0. You’ve still got Minesweeper.

So I was not excited about taking the Brid in when my CD player went kaput last week. It wasn’t 30 minutes and they had called me back, “Yeah, looks like that CD player’s shot. For us to order you a new one… Well, that’s gonna run you $867. But if you want us to take out your current one and send it off to have it looked at, that’ll cost about two and a half.” I had to stifle my laughter. Wait, they were serious. $867 for an ’04 factory stereo whose functions were limited to playing CDs and picking up local radio stations. It’s a few circuits more than a glorified alarm clock. And aesthetically speaking, the same LCD was top of the line in 1996 when the TI-83 streamlined Trigonometry class work. And how gracious of them to offer to send it away for the slight possibility that someone could fix it. For only $250. Pocket change.

I realize that a CD player is nothing more than a creature comfort. But a week and a half of doing without has reminded me why I hate radio. There’s only so many morning shows and Way Back Wednesdays that I can take. If anything, I tune in to listen to music, not to listen to you yarn about American Idol contestants. I tried to give it a shot. I swear I did. But it appears that they haven’t considered supplementing their four-song playlist. I even got semi-excited at the prospect of being caller number nine and winning Toughman tickets. Imagine the buzzkill when I was instructed to “just call 53-MAGIC,” only to find myself stymied by a QWERTY keypad. I guess if I still had a Nokia 3310 or owned a landline this wouldn’t be an issue, but no such luck. And after working out the number in my head, fate would have it that I was caller number ten. The gods must be smiling at my misfortune.

The rain cloud parted, though, when I made the executive decision to go to Best Buy, the Mecca of technology. Techa for short. There’s no other place that consolidates my entertainment and gadgetry interests while simultaneously outing my inner geekdom. Yes, I am a card-carrying member of the Geek Squad. In no time flat, they offered a beefy replacement for the substandard wind-up toy currently sitting in my dash.

“Do you want an iPod hookup?”
“Heck yes.”
“Satellite radio capability?”
“Maybe, I hadn’t really thought about…”
"Bluetooth?"
"I don't have..."
“HD Radio?”
“I don’t even know what that...”
“Don't worry, it's all included. That’ll be $129.”
“Are you in a committed relationship?”

Survival of the Dimmest

When I was a child, power outages were exciting, mysterious and a bit frightening when severe weather was involved. They became an opportunity for family bonding, initiating the ever popular scavenger hunt for candles and matches. When the powers that be tarried a little longer than usual, evenings without electricity suggested the remote possibility of setting up camp in the living room. That is until the lights flickered and everyone scattered to their proper beds.

As an adult, I now consider power outages to not only be annoying but quite possibly the one thing that could reduce humanity to primordial soup faster than you can say electrolytic capacitor. I observed the seeds of devolution at work this week as the electric utility tapped out like a bitch. My coworkers and I collectively sighed and stared blankly at our lifeless computer monitors. Our simian-like demeanor suggested that Kubrick’s 2001 had happened in reverse. It wasn’t the first time it happened, and it certainly won’t be the last. But it always makes me laugh how it’s never convenient when an outage does occur. I’ve never overheard, “Well I’m sure glad I just saved that Word document” or “I was going to thaw out those steaks anyway!”

As the minutes pressed on, I realized that this wasn’t like Monopoly, where everyone avoids purchasing Water Works and Electric Company. No, when the utilities really go out, life comes to a screeching halt. There’s only so much manual work to be done in cubicle world. I could see it in the eyes of a few that this inconvenience robbed them not so much of their productivity as it did the ability to maintain an appearance of work. After 5 more minutes of desk organization, I joined my colleagues at the windows to see if some witless dolt had careened into a telephone pole. Further discussion gave way to newer mysteries, such as how the phones continued to ring despite the absence of volts, watts and amps.

The growing crisis prompted some unique social hurdles as well. Reticent office hermits struggled to make small talk to ease their agitation. So, umm… how’s your mom? She had that thing with her… uh, stomach, was it?... Didn’t she have some sort of invasive surgery to… No? Oh, she’s been dead for 5 years… My mistake… You and Susan thought about having kids yet? I mean, it’s been… Oh really? 12 and 8?... You don’t say. They grow up so fast. Well, time fli… oh look, the power’s back. Good catching up with you Stan, er… Steve. And the ant colony buzzed back to life. I’m pretty sure that a few minutes longer would have yielded a bonfire of folders and various buffalo drawings on the walls.

An afternoon in an office without power played out like a bad apocalyptic movie. But there was no gladiatorial combat in a Thunderdome, nor were we brainstorming how Earth could dodge a Texas-sized meteor. The office wouldn’t have become more interesting had it flooded to the rafters and Kevin Costner sailed right by, showing us his gills. No, our end of the world thriller would be titled “Our Stuff Doesn’t Work Anymore,” and it would feature riveting dialogue such as “Your components work yet?... Nah, mine neither… Guess we’ll just wait some more.”

I’ve never been more convinced that mankind has a veneer, a sheer suggestion, of intelligence as a species. I’m pretty sure that our entire social equilibrium hangs on the ingenuity of history’s handful of geniuses. And it’s this membrane of decency that encapsulates the less than cerebral masses, myself included. By a show of hands, who all knows how to fix a cell phone when it goes rogue? I didn’t think so. My fear though is that were some global event to strip us of our technological advances, our demise would be far more shameful. The populace would concern themselves with how to mill pepper and grind coffee, much less forging a weapon to kill their dinner. Which is why when the power grid fails next time, my first priority (in between taking phone calls) is to construct an instrument of death from rubber bands, tape and paper clips.

Wii Have a Problem

Not too long ago, I walked by a 6-year old that was texting in the movie theater. The objections were all but vomiting out of my mouth: Why do you have a cell phone? Why are you casually operating it in a movie theater? Where are your parents? Why aren't you watching Ratatouille? In that definitive moment, I realized how ridiculous we've become as a civilized people. I'd like to speak with Mr. & Mrs. Can't-Say-No and demand one remotely rational explanation for why a first grader needs a cell phone. Probably because her Sidekick's getting fixed. Could you do me and the rest of society a favor? Send her a text message that says, "Go outside."

Unfortunately this obsession with technology is not limited to our mobile devices. Perhaps you've read recent articles about the immanent possibility of retinal implants. That's right. In your eye. If the surgical procedure itself doesn't turn your stomach, consider the consequences… Sure the scientific advance of a bionic eye would be masked in philanthropy. Sight to the blind and all that. But we know where this is going. Ours is a society where necessity is not necessarily the mother of invention. Superfluous extravagance is. I'd like to thank Xhibit and the boys at GAS for reinforcing the notion that every tricked out Expedition needs no fewer than 23 LCD panels. And 5 of those are so your pets can watch Animal Planet. And here's how this would pan out: As if it isn't enough trouble trying to figure out if strangers at the convenience store are talking to me or to their Bluetooth device, now I have to worry about whether someone's watching the road or watching Oprah. It'll be called the iEye, and it'll also be able to stream all your mp3s directly to your inner ear. All it costs is your soul and a blood sacrifice to Steve Jobs.

Never in a million years did I think that Nintendo would revolutionize physical therapy for seniors. But it's true. In the wake of the Wii's success, an unforeseen result has been the high occurrence of Wii Sports tournaments at nursing homes. We'll call it wiihab. And apparently the geriatrics are lining up for a chance to flex their virtual bowling skills in a low-impact environment. Am I an awful person for wanting to witness this in person? You swing like my dead grandma! Oh wait… And no one needs more ribbing than Nintendo themselves. Let's go to the source: "Wii sounds like 'we', which emphasizes that the console is for everyone. Wii can easily be remembered by people around the world, no matter what language they speak. No confusion. No need to abbreviate. Just Wii." You're right. Apparently language doesn't matter, because Wii has no linguistic antecedent. It looks like it could be the plural form of something, but nothing comes to mind. Let's see… Alumnus, alumni. Cactus, cacti. Virus, virii. Radius, radii. Wus, wii? As in why is this word not pronounced like anything else? Nintendo, you also shoot yourself in the foot when it comes to marketing. You say that the Wii is for everyone. But imagine my reaction if two Japanese men showed up on my doorstep, saying "We would like to play." [awkward silence preceding the door slam]