My knight in slobbery fur

I haven't dropped off the edge of the Earth--there is one ya know! I've just been busy, lazy, and sore. I could write about being busy, but that's no fun, besides most of its work stuff, and I don't want to get fired. Writing about being lazy seems oddly hypocritical, and well that leaves us with sore. You see a few weeks back, my back, decided that it wasn't really my turn to load the dishwasher, and I was hammered with the lovely reminder that you're alive that is deathly pain. That and an inability to move (even more than that brought on by lazyness), and I was in need of help. For centuries we've all had the reliable, loyal, and slobbery rescuer available at a beacons call--no not that Life Call I've fallen and can't get up shit. You see most of us are beyond earshot, but some of us gluttons have them on the premises for moments like this!


Kuma, my knight in slobbery fur!

Before I knew it, I was being attended to, and for once not leaned upon, as Kuma was there for me to lean on him! He was like a big lumbering walker, which is more than I can say for myself, as I was just big and lumbering. Kuma led me to a more modern lifeline, my Blackberry, which brought Liz and then the wonders of Columbus' wonderful ER experience. I just wish Kuma had his barrel, as I could have just drank my way to good health and bypassed the ER. Or I could have just went to his vet, which could have been cheaper and offered a less feral waiting room. Good to know in case this ever happens again, and I hope it doesn't.

I'm fine now btw

PMPin Ain't Easy

Last week I decided to make an honest pimp of myself. Well I decided a while back, but I made it happen last week. You see a pimp friend of mine--names will remain anonymous to protect the guilty--joined me in a crash training course for the pmp exam. Little did we know that meant a crash diet for some, a crash course in mathematics for others, and a crash head first into boredom.

It all seemed nice from afar, a course provider promising a success on the test with the added carrot of a week away from the office. Well sometimes the cheetah catches its prey because its just lame or retarded, and that doesn't make for much of a chase. I went to a cheetah course and it was lame, retarded, and more gulag than gitmo, but that's hardly reason to bust out the sparklers and champagne. Oh, and then there's the preechy no caffeine or carbs bs. Are you kidding me!?! That's how I graduated college in two years and have enough hokey financial services certifications to do a decent game of scrabble with the letters behind my name.

Sadly those letters don't matter, as afterall who's a better merchant than a pimp. At least I got to study under the tutelege of a savant who even tried to pimp me! Pimpin a pimp, who would havr thunk it?

So anyway I was trapped in Stalag 17 for a week and all I got was this blog. At least you got Hilton Rewards points at the Hanoi Hilton, let alone the bones miles doled out for suffering through "1 Night in Paris". Oh fyi. They could have called it five minutes in Paris.

I'm 17 years ahead of the world

Liz and I saw Hamlet 2 this weekend, and it was everything I'd hope it would be (among other things in included a sequel to Hamlet involving a time machine and Jesus--sexy Jesus in fact). Watching the clever sequel to the Bard's masterpiece seemed oddly familiar, like deja vu. It took a few moments for it to all make sense, but it wasn't long before it hit me in the face. This notion of a time machine to fix Shakespeare's tragic endings wasn't new, I had thought it up in 8th grade! No it wasn't Hamlet, we didn't have to read it until high school, and to be honest after seeing Kennith Branagh's version in a foolish moment masochism in college, I'd wish them all a horrible death. No need to go back in time to save anyone. Anyway, it was "Romeo and Juliet", which has a similar story to Tromeo and Juliet.

We read the play, watched the movie (yeah the one with the chick with nice hooters), and afterward we had to do some lame creative project. Dioramas, mobiles, scrapbooks, and other shit were heaved upon our teacher. Not being one to be outdone, I decided to fight fire with fire, and do a bit of writing--a new ending to "Romeo and Juliet". Sure it's rather adolescant, but for a good reason. I was like 13 or 14, and I was heavily influenced by what I saw on TV.

One day MacGyver and his boss Pete were out fishing. They caught marlin on MacGyver's homemade line. Pete was sea sick and he had already puked three times on "Phoenix I," the corporate boat, so MacGyver drove him home. MacGyver wasn't tired, so he decided to read the book he got this month. The book was a Shakespearean play, "Romeo and Juliet," to be exact.

LATER

After reading the play, MacGyver dozed off. He was saddened by the tragic ending. He wished he could do something. "WAIT," he thought, "Maybe I could build a time machine." He thought about what he would need.
He decided to call Dr. Bruce Banner a buddy of his; the good doctor was an expert on many time traveling theories. The doctor could warn him of any dangers. The doctor was not as smart as MacGyver; nobody is.
MacGyver knew he needed to travel to modern day Verona so he called the "A-Team." They could get him a plane and help fly it. The A-Team could build anything, but not with as few resources as MacGyver. MacGyver needed their help due to the little amount of time in a 60 minute episode.
Face, Murdock, B.A., Hannibal, and Bruce arrived. MacGyver acquainted them of his plan. The "A-Team," will build the plane and MacGyver will build the time machine.
B.A. quickly pulled the van up to the garage. Hannibal told Face and Murdock to unload the welding equipment. They did so. B.A. congregated the spare sheet-metal and steel tubing that MacGyver has lying around. Face detached the engine from MacGyver's truck. Murdock went up to MacGyver's attic to get the excess carbon fiber MacGyver has up there. B.A. welded a large frame. Face bent the sheet metal to form a fuel tank. Murdock modified MacGyver's truck's engine. He made it into a jet engine. Hannibal and B.A. weaved the carbon fiber around the frame B.A. made. Face took the glass from MacGyver's truck to form a windscreen for the plane. Murdock took the gauges from MacGyver's truck and put them in the plane. B.A. welded the engine on. Face welded on the fuel tank. Murdock connected the fuel tank to the engine. Hannibal cut a door in the plane's body.
MacGyver gathered ten coathangers, a potato, and a touch-tone phone. First he stretched out all the coathangers. Second he tied all of them together forming a loop. Next he separated one connection, putting the potato between the ends. Finally he wired the phone up to the potato. The machine would get its power from the potato. The date would be entered into the phone's keypad. The coathanger loop would be the gate between now and then. Bruce warned MacGyver of the ramifications of altering history. The group went out to the plane.
B.A. said "Good-bye," to the others. B.A. got into the van. Before he could start the van, face gave B.A. a shot that put B.A. to sleep. They boarded the plane. Murdock moved into the pilot's seat. B.A. was dumped on the floor. The plane whizzed down the street. Eventually it became airborne. The plane would just barely make to Italy.
During the flight MacGyver sewed some period appropriate clothing. The plane made it to Italy, but the plane did not make it to Verona. They had to ditch the plane in the middle of an open field. They did not know that Rambo IV was be filmed on that location. Explosions were occurring to the plane's right. B.A. woke up. Then Rambo came running towards them. He did not know that the plane was not supposed to be there. He sprayed lead into the plane. Fortunately all of Rambo's bullets were blanks.
"Cut," said the director, "I said cut dammit." Rambo ceased fire. The director approached the plane. MacGyver went to Rambo, while Hannibal tried to make up an excuse for the director.
"We have supplies for the Pope," said Hannibal.
"The Pope you say; what supplies do you have," said the director.
"Parts for the Popemobile," replied Hannibal. Meanwhile MacGyver persuaded Rambo to divert the director while the A-team fixes the plane.
"YO, Direcduh," said Rambo. The director went to Rambo. The A-team took all that was worth keeping. All was loaded on three Jeeps. The A-team, the doctor, and MacGyver boarded the Jeeps. Rambo jumped in one of the Jeeps. MacGyver grudgingly let Rambo come along. After three tense hours they arrived in modern day Verona.
MacGyver set up the time machine. Dr. Banner warned MacGyver once again. B.A. did not want to have anything to do with a time machine, so he suggested that he stay back, I mean forward, to guard the machine. Murdock called B.A. a coward. B.A. decided to go along. The group walked into the loop. Upon arriving in the past, they noticed that their hair was standing up. B.A. was not affected, as his hair stands up anyway. They were 100 ft. from the gates to the city. As expected, they arrived on Thursday, Juliet's second wedding day. MacGyver suggested that they all wait by the gateway, while he went to Friar Lawrence's cell.
Rambo had another idea; he grabbed as many weapons as he could. He raided the gates of the city. He sprayed lead into the guards that tried to stop him. He then ran into the first building he saw, and then he set a bomb to blow up five minutes from then. He ran out of the building carelessly mowing down anyone he could find, enjoying it. Meanwhile, Dr. Banner could not stand the violence. He got bigger, greener, and meaner. He became the "Incredible Hulk." He ran into the city randomly taking care of anyone Rambo hasn't killed. Rambo stormed the Montegue's home. He did not shoot anyone; he instead pulled out his trusty survival knife. He began gashing people with it. He cut into people, then pulled up with all of his strength. One by on he killed all the Montegues, but one, Romeo. He then pulled out three grenades, and then ran out of the house throwing the grenades on his way out.
B.A. encouraged the A-team to do the same. Hannibal instructed B.A. to retrieve a cart. B.A. did so. Hannibal told Murdock and face to gather wood. They did so. Within ten minutes the cart and the wood became a wooden tank. Hannibal retrieved a nearby horse and hitched it up to the cart-tank. The A-team boarded the tank. Murdock controlled the horses. The tank stormed the town.
Meanwhile, Hulk stormed the Home of Paris. He sought out anyone. First he picked up a servant, then he threw him 20 feet. Next he saw Paris; he then picked him up and crushed him. Hulk continued.
Concurrently, MacGyver arrived at Friar Lawrence's cell. He told him that Romeo will not be informed of the Friar's plan. At first the Friar did not believe MacGyver, but finally MacGyver convinced him. The Friar then went immediately to Capulet's tomb. MacGyver, believing his job was done, returned to the porthole.
As this was going on, Rambo stormed Capulet's place. He did not know that the A-team was attacking from the back of Capulet's place. The A-team fired at servants, and at Rambo. Rambo was hit by a bullet.
He turned and ran into the building spraying lead all over the place. Rambo had lost touch with reality. He no longer had full control of his body; primal instincts took over. He became the ultimate killing machine. He shot and killed all the A-team. He killed Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse, and anyone else he could see. He set bombs all over the complex. He stormed out of there. He ran into neighboring homes doing the same. He no longer knew why he was killing, he just knew he liked it.
Rambo saw Hulk; he immediately shot twenty, thirty, forty times. Hulk did not fall; he attacked Rambo. They fought hand to hand for minutes. Then Rambo pulled out his knife and stabbed Hulk with inconceivable power. He drove the knife upward. Hulk had a twelve inch gash stretching from his lower chest to his neck. Hulk then bit into Rambo with his last strength. Hulk fell.
Rambo, wounded, stopped for a minute. He stuck his knife in the hole from the bullet. He cleaned out the wound by twisting the knife. He then pulled out the bullet and the knife. He opened a bullet. He poured the powder in the wound. He then lit it. The ferocious heat sealed his flesh shut.
While this was going on, MacGyver arrived at the porthole. Only Colonel Decker and his merry men were there. "Where's Smith and the A-team?" asked Decker.
"Good question," returned MacGyver.
"Cut the crap kid, where is Smith?" yelled Decker irately.
"Colonel, I brought them here, and then they left. They refused to listen to me. Good luck finding them," said MacGyver.
"Put Mr. Angus MacGyver in cuffs," yelled Decker violently. "Damn you Smith," whispered Decker. "C'mon boys lets go after them," cried Decker. The group spread and searched for the A-team. MacGyver stayed behind handcuffed to a tree.
Rambo began his onslaught again. He attacked people, animals, even trees. He threw grenades everywhere. After destroying every building in town, he returned to the porthole. On the way he ran into a few of Decker's men. He slaughtered them with rapid bullet fire.
Back at the porthole, MacGyver used some lint in his pocket to unlock his handcuffs. He then waited for the rest to return. MacGyver saw Balthesar. He ran to him rapidly. "Balthesar! wait!" he yelled. "Juliet is still alive," he blared.
"What be you sayith," responds Balthesar. "I saw the fair Juliet put in her final resting place, she be as dead as Elvis," he replied angrily. "Do you hath say my dear eyes lie to thy?" questioned Balthesar.
"No, and you are right Juliet is as dead as Elvis," MacGyver stated with authority. MacGyver explained what happened to Juliet. Balthesar finally understood it all. MacGyver sent Balthesar on his way. Rambo returned. Upon seeing a familiar face Rambo got back in touch with reality. MacGyver and Rambo exited the past and entered the present.
Romeo talked with Balthesar. He then returned to what was Verona. The town and its residents were gone; only corpses remained. The only people left were Romeo, Balthesar, Friar Lawrence, and Juliet. Together with new residents, new town was built. Romeo ruled the town. Everyone who lived, lived happily ever after.

LATER

MacGyver woke up. He looked around. He realized that he was dreaming and that none of this really happened. He still felt dejected by the tragic ending.



Ok, the ending is a cop out. Throw out everything after that last "LATER", and it's so much better than the real thing. Still tragic, but kinda happy--right? The Tivo of life is 17 years behind me. Time to fast forward through commercials!

Emulation is the sincerest form of flattery

Well if that's the case, our Wii has really boosted the self esteem of old NES, Genesis, SNES, and even Saturn consoles that line landfills across the world. What the hell is Shane blabbering about this time? We'll get there.

You know how guys facing various facets of aging take on long forgotten aspects of their youth such as buying that sports car (or pimped out minivan) of his childhood dreams or reliving the memories of scoring four touchdowns in a game playing for Polk High School. For me, its more geeky. Since I've been banned from watching Jeopardy, I've taken on other pursuits. Yesterday I liberated our Wii, itself a flashback to a mispent youth. Now I can take on Bionic Commando, Pro Wrestling, and even Contra! That's right:

"Congratulations! You've destroyed the vile Red Falcon and saved the universe. Consider yourself a hero."

How's that for a pat on the back! Plus all those years where I remembered ↑ ↑ ↓ ↓ ← → ← → B A and was led to believe those brain cells had a greater purpose, well look who's typing now---byatch! It's great to be alive!

My little Fight Club

For whatever reason, Fight Club, both in it's book and movie forms resonated with me. I'm not sure if it's being stuck in a corporate America morass, a fondness for Ikea, or just a taste for violence. Whatever, it's cool, I'm cool, and I'm doing my part--well if you ignore those first two rules.

Do I show up to work with shiners, spit out needless extra teeth in meetings, or try to pick fights at work? Maybe, but that's beside the point. Fight Club is bigger than Tyler Durden, it was an institution--a way of life. That's what I'm on to. While the soap making has yet to kick into full gear, the ass kicking is alive and well. I guess my fight club started when I had two eager disciples who weren't separated by bars, but bloodlines tended to quash matters more than steel bars. Fresh blood, new blood, hungry blood really livened things up.

Michael Vick really got into a quagmire with his whole operation, but he had it all wrong. Rather than train animals to be aggressive, violent, and hungry, one can just adopt ones who have that potential. Then all you have to do is feed, nurture, and support them. In time it all takes care of itself; all you need is a camera. Leo and Adler (above) sometimes have epic cat fights, but they are nothing compared to the earth shaking chaos that is a Kuma and Stuart bout. Kuma is sorta like an Emo Andre the Giant. Big, strong, but somehow not that menacing. Stuart is rather like X-Pac, little, greasy, and really really really hard to root for. At first Stuart defied logic and all reason, by whipping up on Kuma. Poor Kuma wasn't getting enough calories to have the energy to fight back. A hearty diet, some encouragement, and maybe a little goading, and Kuma the Giant found himself. Stuart was never the same.

Things got worse for Stuart, as little Magnus is fast becoming the Kimbo Slice of Columbus. He's never ran from a fight, and I've never seen fear in his eye. The little warrior tears toys from Kuma's mouth, makes Stuart run like a coward, and has even tried to gnaw his daddy into submission. His training has just began, and he's gaining a pound a day. We may have to bring in Godzilla to give him a good workout or fly him to Spain to run with the bulls. Until then, Kuma and Stuart will have to do. Poor Stuart!

I'm grabbing the bottled water and heading the the basement

There end is near!!!!

There will be a Cornhole game for the Wii! I've written about this exercise in laminess and idiocy, before. What is the world coming to! I'm still waiting for a decent curling game for the Wii. Now that's a sport worth promoting.

The White Death

Columbus, OH doesn't tend to get a whole lot of snow (compared to Cleveland or Buffalo), and until debacles in recent years, the city lacked any kind of adequate capacity to clear the streets to allow life to go on. Now this doesn't stop forecasters, reporters, and the average Joe from spreading frightful tales of the coming "white death" every time there is a chance for snow. The only thing more comical is watching reporters with little else to do but stand near a mound of stored up rock salt and and point cameras at the sky to watch little flurries fall.

So when these accounts began again on March 6th, foretelling a snowstorm like none other this year--one with 4-6 inches of snow on Friday March 7th, well Liz and I dismissed it, and we expected the usual weather Cheerio to save Columbus. Weather Cheerio: Liz's term to describe the phenomena where bad weather--notably rain and snow, tends to encircle Columbus, but not inflict its wrath on Columbus itself. Anyway, we both went to work and expected little if any drama. We even made plans to join my friend/coworker Shawn at a hockey game Friday night. In short, we heard the boy cry wolf before.

By mid morning, it appeared that they were underestimating the amount of snow, but it likely was just coming down sooner rather than later. After lunch rumors of my employer sending non essential workers home spread, and outlying school districts closed early. Then roadways began to get all jacked up, as folks couldn't see due to the whiteout, and the snow and ice were piling up faster than any plows could address. I dare not mention the overall incompetence of Columbus drivers. It was getting ugly. I let for work early, and Liz did too. This was before they declared a Blizzard warning.

We finally realized that they weren't crying wolf, but they were still wrong. We got the predicted amount of snow well before the worse was to be unleashed. Now they were forecasting 14 inches! Not being one to look a gift hockey ticket in the mouth, Shane persuaded Liz into braving the blizzard. Oddly enough, while 99% of all businesses were closed and the county recommended staying at home, it was clear and sunny--the calm before the storm.

After the game and for another 18 hours it snowed, and it typically was heavy. At times it was hard to see through the blowing driving snow, but the boys and I found some time to play in the snow and take pictures. I even ventured out to score some pizza, but that proved rather irrational.

In the end we got about 20 inches of snow, watched a whole lot of shitty movies, and suffered from cabin fever. While I got a bit of exercise shoveling snow, we were saved with some dudes and a truck plowing our driveway to freedom. Thank god for Mr Plow!

A Scary Sight

Today as I was driving home I saw a city bus, all decked out in one of those hokey ads that envelop the entire bus. While the usual ads are for insurance carriers, collision center, or even the godforsaken Buckeyes, this one was a tad more alarming.

It had an ad for the local VA hospital, which apparently is in need of some psychiatrists. Yes, they have resorted to the side of a bus to diagnose and treat shell shocked soldiers who have seen god knows what, done stuff I don't want to know about, and maybe had some really fucked up shit happen to them. Oh yeah, some of these guys may have re-enlisted and had even worse shit happen the 2nd time around. I feel bad for these guys, and I suppose they should have good treatment, but more importantly, if they're in bad shape, perhaps violent, or in some post traumatic stress induced stupor, well they should really be taken care of. I'm not sure that whoever is wandering around, in need of a job, desiring nothing better than shitty government pay, and responding to this bus ad is up to the task.

Stuart and Kuma's Big Adventure

Probably the most consistent part of our lives is the existence of our two largest pets: Kuma the bovine like St Bernard and Stuart the goat in a Bassett Hound's body. Both have their charms, and I suppose we love them equally (I'll never say that under oath though), but we definitely like Kuma more. His unassuming self deprecating manner (much better than a dog with a self defecating manner) and overall need to please us makes him so much easier to deal with. Anyway, this isn't an ode to our dogs, though I suppose it could have turned up that way.

You see this past Sunday, which started like most Sundays--well except for the fact the weather was beautiful and we opted to not go to the zoo. We were just too doggone tired to do so. I had a wild and crazy night out with my friends who seemed to need to get away from it all. Being young and crazy we ended up parting ways and going home around 11:30pm. I returned home to see Liz immersed in the world of Harry Potter (I had finished earlier that afternoon). I ended up staying up with her past 3am (two nights in a row after 3am--what's next--hosting a Harry Potter rave?). Ok, back to Sunday, we pretty much lounged around the house, finding one sound reason after another not to exert ourselves. Once dinner time approached, I fired up the grill and braced myself for what was to come (having a 170lb St Bernard jump on you is never easy, but bracing oneself can keep your head above your feet). Oddly enough what was to come never did.

Hmmmmm. Where's Kuma (oddly enough I wasn't that worried Stuart was no where to be seen, as I know he is our cross to bear and will always be there)? I called for the big beast, and still I couldn't see or hear him. I looked in nearby yards for a confused pony sized dog (he probably could somehow step over the fence (not much of a leaper, but he is THAT tall). I even called for Stuart against my better judgment. Sadly it all was for not. Desperate I looked over to the gate, which was not closed!

I half expected to see an exhausted St Bernard laying under the tree in the front yard panting like crazy and a Bassett Hound head deep in our trash can, but neither was seen. After alerting Liz, I began my hunt. Knowing that a dog the size of a growing buffalo is not something that disappears stealthily I stopped the first car that roamed by our house. After trying to not look like a car jacker, I got them to roll down the window. Before I could finish asking they nodded rapidly and pointed to the corner not far away. They weren't much for words, but after seeing a giant dog a giant human likely wasn't what they wanted to see next. The hunt continued.

I ran ahead to the corner they pointed to, and there was someone watering their lawn. Only in Ohio do people stand in their front yard with a hose and manually water the grass--quite a bizarre practice, but they smiled and said you own that big thing and pointed to the next corner (which wasn't that far away, but I still couldn't see them). I ran ahead (well maybe I walked fast), and just at the next corner was some kid doing something--can't recall, but he likely thought he looked cooler than he really did. Anyway, he said what's his name and asked which dog was mine. At this point I realized I had only asked folks about Kuma, but I'm not 100% sure I was acting on my greater affection for him or my knowledge that Stuart is a curse that we must bear--most likely it was just the logical reasoning that it's 100x times easier to see a dog that's closer to the size of Mr Ed than Lassie. In any event, it wasn't long before I rounded this corner to see a happier than he should be St Bernard bounding about and a dutiful Bassett Hound sniffing a trail to god knows where.


That pretty much ended Kuma and Stuart's big adventure. I wasn't smart enough to bring collars let alone leashes, so I had to verbally wrangle them--easier said than done, but it didn't need to last for too long, as Liz appeared in her trusty CRV to serve as animal control. Thus their moments of unbridled freedom ended safely. Stuart continues to hound about the gate, and I'm sure he won't forget the endless world of smells out there. Kuma quickly became beyond exhausted after he not only walked farther than he's used to but did so jumping and galloping like a horse with hemorrhoids.

I'm a Genius

Few things survive through the millenniums as pyramids, and few things can be guaranteed to succeed as those that have made it through the millenniums. These two facts are relatively benign on their own, but when a genius puts them together, well you have brilliance. Bask in my glow.

While others have built pyramids in recent years, they have made them into various trivialities as casinos, arenas, or entrances to museums. These aren't structures for the ages, and all in all, they are just rubbish. Greatness demands more, form must follow function. Pyramids, the structures people visit, the things on the dollar bills (which is what it is all about--money that is), and the structures one can see from space--they were the final resting place for royalty--ney gods who walked the Earth. What made them gods? The fact that they were buried in pyramids! We all want to be divine (that's why there are so many Mormons), and we all want to walk among the gods (that's why Zeus was such a mack-daddy--no real answer why no one wants to invite Mormons into their homes), so why not sell divinity?

Sell divinity? Yeah, that is my scheme dream. I need some help from investors, but why not take some abandoned land, scare off the hobos and shit, and build a giant pyramid. We could use prison labor (to make it authentic, we kinda made slavery illegal, but it seems to be a good compromise) to get it done, and when done it would be a giant mausoleum. If people pay thousands to be hacked up and frozen, why wouldn't they want to be hacked up and put in Canopic jars? Want to kick it old school and take it with you? We can offer treasure rooms, space for your loyal servants (you'll have to make arrangements to kill them, as I'm not a murderer--a scoundrel yes, murderer no), and even a fancy curse if you pay enough. Given that it would be quite an addition to the cityscape, I know I could get taxpayer funding for most of it, and hell it would be quite an urban revitalization. We could open up a Valley of the Kings shopping mall, a Nile River waterpark (crocs optional), and a Cleopatra's beauty school (she wasn't really that pretty, but we all have room to improve).

Once this works, I can sell franchises in other cities. Soon there will be pyramids everywhere and a whole prison system of really buff and rather tired inmates. Gosh watching COPs has become much more practical, as it is a form of job fair. I need to get to work! Anyone want to be my HR manager?

I guess I like Craig more than that dude Tom

As y'all know, I'm an avid photographer, and some might say a good one (my philosophy: if you take enough pictures, one has to be good). For the past 3+ years, I've enjoyed my trusty Panasonic FZ10, which somehow came to be known as the "Fluzi" among its owners. Now, it wasn't some cheap fluzy--it cost most of my bonus a few years ago, but it certainly paid for itself through not having to buy/develop film. It also made the film camera I got just a few months before rather unnecessary. Anyway, I got a new camera a few weeks ago, one camera to rule them all!!!

Believe it or not, this blog isn't so much about getting a new camera as it is about an odd phenomena--Craig's List. While I got my new camera along with a lens, the combination is best for nearer subjects, not the distant critters one sees at the zoo and other places I wander. I knew this getting into the whole affair planning on using the proceeds from selling my two cameras to buy an uberlens. That's where Craig's List comes in. I had sold things via the company classified ads (they're online), but I knew the bigger net I cast, the higher price I could get. I really didn't want to mess with eBay, so I instead posted a few ads on Craig's List. at first it seemed too easy, offers started pouring in, then I realized that when you filtered out morons who thought a 35mm camera was digital, scams involving mailing it to Nigeria as a wedding gift in exchange for some dubious money order, or people who got cold feet and suddenly needed to tend to sick puppies (heard that a few times), it wasn't as easy as it seemed. In the process I mentioned Craig's list to a coworker who sold a boat in a manner of hours. Frustration set in, but in the end I got rid of both cameras and a PS2. Not bad.

All in all the place really seems like quite the active marketplace, and I suppose I'll use it again (you can't beat the price). I'm still amazed how close to the price of a new item someone will pay for a used one. Geesh. Oh, for you camera buffs out there, I got a Nikon D70s (refurb--yeah I'm a cheap German bastard), 18mm - 135mm f/3.5-5.6G ED-IF AF-S lens, and a 70-300mm f/4.5 - 5.6G ED-IF AF-S VR lens.

All of my newer pics can be found here.

Time to get that can of whoop-ass back off the shelf

Well, once again it is time for those nutty Buckeyes to face a reality check, and sadly once again it will have to come from my Florida Gators. Looking back to December, there was a lot of talk on the TV, the radio, and most annoyingly everywhere else up here about how Ohio State was gonna kick Florida's ass in basketball, then again for the national championship in football. For the record Florida won by 26 points in basketball. Well, that didn't really put a damper on all the talk that they'd kick Florida's ass in football for the championship. For the record Florida won by 27 points in football.

Well tonight Florida an Ohio State will meet again for a national championship, and they will meet again in basketball, as it is the basketball championship. Will the Gators win by 28 tonight? Who knows, and they may even lose--I seriously doubt that, but I won't be as arrogant as Bubba Buckeye, who incidentally seems very quiet today. That swagger was absent all day at work, and I think that a bit of humble pie has been consumed. I hope it stays that way, and worst case scenario, I know any Buckeye fan would trade 10 basketball championships for one in football. We already won that one.

Go Gators!

I hate you fat--sweaty dude with the lawnmower

This afternoon while cruising home, I had the unfortunate experience of seeing some big fat dude with his gratuitous plumber butt transitioning to his sweaty hairy back. While this was horrifying, it wasn't for the aforementioned reasons, ney it was what he was doing. Mowing his fucking lawn.

Goddamn Ohioans love their lawns too damn much, and they seem to love all of the crap that makes having a lawn suck more than anything. They love to mow; they love to fertilize; the love to weed. For a city with so many Mexicans, you'll fine nothing more futile than looking for a Mexican gardener, as there are none. Everyone loves to garden too much to pay someone a few pesos to do it for them.

Granted, Liz has suggested that we hire someone to mow the lawn, but somehow I'd feel ashamed to do it. Not so much because no one here does it, as I'm growing tired of some of the neuroses of Ohioan,s no, I'd have a hard time dealing with the fact that my mother or father mows the yard in the Florida heat with twice the yard. Until I can put them in a home somewhere, I will just do my duties and mow my lawn, but I'll be damned if I will do it just because I can. You Ohioans are sick--sick lawn mowing bastards!

I hate you fat sweaty dude with the lawnmower

This afternoon while cruising home, I had the unfortunate experience of seeing some big fat dude with his gratuitous plumber butt transitioning to his sweaty hairy back. While this was horrifying, it wasn't for the aforementioned reasons, ney it was what he was doing. Mowing his fucking lawn.

Goddamn Ohioans love their lawns too damn much, and they seem to love all of the crap that makes having a lawn suck more than anything. They love to mow; they love to fertilize; the love to weed. For a city with so many Mexicans, you'll fine nothing more futile than looking for a Mexican gardener, as there are none. Everyone loves to garden too much to pay someone a few pesos to do it for them.

Granted, Liz has suggested that we hire someone to mow the lawn, but somehow I'd feel ashamed to do it. Not so much because no one here does it, as I'm growing tired of some of the neuroses of Ohioan,s no, I'd have a hard time dealing with the fact that my mother or father mows the yard in the Florida heat with twice the yard. Until I can put them in a home somewhere, I will just do my duties and mow my lawn, but I'll be damned if I will do it just because I can. You Ohioans are sick--sick lawn mowing bastards!

I am an Enabler

For those of you who don't know, Liz is straight edge, and I was raised as a German Catholic. Needless to say there is a pretty big difference in certain aspects of our lives, but all in all we get along pretty well. When we first met, I had my two kids who pretty much would get wasted on whatever I'd give them, including one who was pretty much a stoner. She had her two kids, who had never done any illicit substances (they had their vices, mostly a punk-like tendency for destruction).

We'd never talked about our parenting views, but I supposed all was well. Being inspired by Bradgelina we adopted an orphan of our own. He followed in his mother's straight edge life, and all was well. My two kids had their stashes, but our latest addition really seamed to have made a choice to abstain.

Well a few days ago we were at the store, and Liz saw something to help get our little druggies their fix (kinda like a bong, only it involved a modest amount of activity). We bought it, and I loaded it up with some of the finest green goodness. Little did I know that within the next few days, not only did my two life long users and abusers get their fix, but our latest addition as well. He's fallen to the dark side, with his distant glazed over look and general lethargy. I hope his mommy can forgive me and continue to love him. Poor kitty just couldn't say no.

Thawing out

Now that the snow has begun melting, the abominable snowman has retreated, and the thermometer has stabilized in the positive realm, I feel its safe the reflect upon the days that have passed. They've brought two debilitating snow storms, about a foot of snow, lots of ice, and way too much local weather coverage. They've brought images of silly Ohioans mowing their snow with snow blowers (folks here love to mow their yards WAY too much), memories of snow plows trapped in the snow, and visions of puppies playing in the snow.

Perhaps one of the most memorable moments was on Valentines Day, where upon returning home from a romantic meal at Smokey Bones (nothing says love like ribs and chicken), we were slowly getting trapped in the snow that inundated our driveway. Being the chivalrous fella I am, I hopped out to shovel snow out of the way, but before I could realize how futile that effort would be, I was greeted by two of our friends from the south (Mexico, not Kentucky), who appeared out of nowhere. We quickly got past the language barrier, and upon some negotiation, which involved converting prices into Pesos, so they could determine if it was worth their while, we agreed upon a price. What was almost as remarkable as their sudden appearance was the arrival of two more helpers. In less than five minutes, they cleared all of the snow and more importantly ice, from the way of the garage, helped push the car in, and began work on the rest of the driveway. When I looked out the window ten minutes later, they were gone, as was the snow and ice on the driveway--six inches of snow and about an inch of ice, all for less than the price my coworkers paid to replace their broken snow shovels from their failed efforts. Rome wasn't built in a day, but I'm damn sure Mexico City was.

I'm a Horrible Person

Every now and then I head home from work a little earlier than normal (because I went to work early, I'm no slacker ;-). This sometimes leads to an encounter with the ultimate roadblock: the short bus. Yes, I mean THAT short bus. For a variety of reasons, there are so many short bus worthy folks living nearby that you'll see a long 'short' bus. I know that sounds confusing, but bear with me.

Anyway, these buses make frequent stops, and it can take FOREVER. I know I should take the time to be thankful that neither I nor anyone I care about is differently abled, but come on, it takes FOREVER. You see these folks tend to need constant supervision, so someone has to come out from the house to meet the bus. The bus needs to lower its lift, and then the person on the lift needs to slowly descend. This all takes a while, then it repeats, as these homes must be halfway houses for handifolks (or someone didn't realize their genes weren't were the jiz they travel in). Oh, btw, these folks aren't just physically gimpy, they're also 'tards, so it can take a while for them to navigate their chairs on and off the lift.

So I wait 5-10 minutes behind the short bus, sometimes behind short bus A who is stopped waiting for short bus B to unload, which sadly means than once one unloads, I can only proceed a block or two before short bus A begins the process. Fortunately this second trip is a bit shorter, as that bus has biped 'tards. These folks wear helmets, and let me tell you, they need them. I've seen folks just fall flat on their face mask (thus saving their face) for no reason. Note I didn't say they tripped, as any normal person will trip on occasion (I'll do so more often than most)--these people will just fall, like they forgot that they wanted to stay upright. It's sad, but somehow I'm such as ass that I can laugh (hell it's better than crying, though sometimes my laughter brings me to the brink of that).

So in short, I'm a horrible person. I don't appreciate my good fortune; I curse the less fortunate; and I laugh at those whose lives must suck. I'm going to hell; join me if you like.

Cruisin' with the Po-Po

I sit here groggy, tired, sore, and wondering what exactly led to me riding in a cop car last night. While I've watched more than my fair share of COPS, I can honestly say it's a bit different when you're riding in the car--mostly the smell, with a bouquet of puke, piss, and other fluids masked by an overwhelming fragrance of industrial sanitizer--basically like bowling alley shoes, only worse.

So how did I end up smelling these unique odors and enjoying the real life COPS experience? Well fear not it didn't start with a crack pipe and a wife beater. It all started innocently enough with a car ride to Cincinnati to visit Liz's friend, who was there on business travel. We got there early and discovered how the elite live and travel, and decided upon a nearby place to dine. We walked there only to discover that the Thai place we decided upon was no longer open, so we sauntered about to another Asian place, then another. All closed. Determined to keep going, her friend decided to ask the on the spot food critic: the fuzz.

I suppose it was a sound idea, but a tad unconventional--the kind of thinking I usually exhibit. He pulled his cruiser over and asked what kind of food we were looking for and processed the query. After a few results sputtered out, he thought of a Chinese place his Asian friend ate at. He then offered to give us a ride there. How could we refuse? So next thing you know, he's opening the back doors, the ladies slide in and I somehow got shotgun (though ironically enough there was no shotgun in the front seat, which was rather common in Florida). I suppose I haven't watched enough COPS, as I looked around for a while for the seat belt, which was no where to be found--five-0 gotta get in and out quickly. As we cruised around, we were like animals in a zoo exhibit, as everyone glanced in, often practically sticking their heads in, Not wanting to disappoint us further the cop called his Asian friend to see if the place would be open at that 'late' hour (like 8pm), and his friend seemed shocked that he would be riding around with strangers. Making our experience complete, he pulled up to a red light and asked if we wanted to run a red light; he then proceeded to do so and asked if we get pissed when cops do that. Before long our trip was over, but the journey continued ...

We got to the place, which was the cliche Chinese place with lots of red and green, a few terracotta soldiers, and the ubiquitous dragons. We sat down, and before long our conversations scared the family sitting nearby into a hasty exit, and we were greeted with a remarkably entertaining waiter, who warned us of what not to eat, advised us on the best values, and humored our general playfulness. The food was good, but the amusing interactions kept making sure we 'enjoys' everything.

After that we walked back to the hotel, sadly no ride in the police car, but we did see a bunch of blue lights while we were walking past the Hustler store. We walked over to see if our buddy was there, but alas we didn't see him. All in all it was the best experience I've had with the the law. It also was cool meeting Liz's cool friend. I wonder what kind of adventures we'll go on when our paths cross again.

No Messin Wit Da 614

I've been home ill the past few days, with an added touch of foot pain likely induced by being stepped upon by the enormous puppy. In my boredom, I've watched a few movies (including some that I knew would suck, thus enhancing the potential for sleep--didn't work) and surfed the net a bit. In my travels, I read up on some underground DVDs (well I guess that cats out of the bag) containing fights from 'the 614'. Wanting to see if these videos are just lame (think Vanilla Ice on Celebrity Boxing), amusing (think bum fights), or hardcore (don't think I've really seen that yet), I check them out via YouTube.

The first clip is rather subdued, even boring (don't think I'll want to front that I represent the 614 after that):




The second has a cool sound track (representing the 614) and is a bit more chaotic and violent (probably just a tad worse than COPs):




The last one has a good ole fashioned cat fight:



All in all, more disappointing than amusing. I guess we always OSU riot footage:



Oh, btw, there is an OSURiots.com webpage. Perhaps it's reach problematic status when people start buying URLs.

I'm Not Really White Trash

Lately I have been reacquainting myself with my white trash roots, and nothing exemplifies that more than watching COPS and WWE wrestling. COPS is especially nostalgic, as many locals I've frequented or had occasion to travel through are subjects of the fine show (worry not, I never was a crack head or tweaker). I've watched enough COPs lately that I can tell what city they're in without reading obvious clues (such as decals on the side of police cars or badges). I've learned how to make crystal meth, how to shop lift, and how cheap a ho really can be. I've had many meals that cost less than a romp in the bushes with some of those nasty girls, and by the looks of some of the men, I'd want much more money just to spend 5 minutes in their presence, let alone--eeeeeewwwweee. WWE is somewhat less nostalgic, as many familiar faces are older, fatter, and less entertaining. Rowdy Roddy Piper looks bad, the undertaker looks older than my now retired dad, and Ric Flair looks absolutely horrible. He's aged more in the past two years than Charo has in the past twenty--ney forty years. I don't recall wrestlers wearing french maid outfits (complete with tiger print g-string), and I'm not talking about a chic! Totally unnecessary. Oh, the Boogeyman is a sigh to behold--homeboy runs out with live worms in his mouth. He wrestles quickly to avoid chocking on them, then spits them out on his opponents upon defeating them. He carries a few extra in his cargo pants, just in case he wants to go fishing afterwards. The Flava-Flav clock he smashes on his head is cool though. Eddy Guerrero has been replaced with his wife, who looks worse than he would in drag (well while he was still alive at least). At least she continues his tradition of sporting a mullet. Only in WWE and the NHL does the mullet thrive. I blame Canada, the homeland for white trash. All this talk of white trash makes me want some Waffle House---mmmmm yum!