TinMan Dan's Heartless Rant

New Feature: Book Review!

2009-12-28T11:29:00.010-06:00

Yeah, yeah -- I haven't blogged in a while. Sue me. Truth be told, I've been working, brewing, and hanging out with my family. And that leaves little time for blogging. However, I've also been reading, and I thought I'd share my thoughts about a new book on craft brewing.

If, like myself, you are a fan of beer that has not been brewed by the idiots at most, if not all, American macrobreweries, you'll enjoy The Naked Pint, a new book from Christina Perozzi and Hallie Beaune, the self-named "Beer Chicks". This book provides a wealth of information on the various styles, attitudes, and opinions about craft-brewed beers, all the while challenging the overused cliche that wine be for women, beer be for blokes, and never the twain shall meet. Much space in the book is devoted to educating readers about how beer is categorized and the criteria to use when distinguishing the good from the Bud...oops...bad, with a smattering of humor to keep everything very lighthearted. So, if you're a fan of good beer (a note to Bud, Miller, and Coors drinkers: this does not include you), pick up a copy at Amazon.com and start reading. You'll learn a lot.

If you'd like even more info, you can visit Christina Perozzi's blog: Beer For Chicks. In addition to giving the latest news on all things related to beer, she also provides info on beer events in the Los Angeles area. Given I'm from Chicago, that doesn't help me a whole lot, but I'm happy to pass along the recommendation to me readers. Both of you. :)

Now, for any brewers out there, I'll also recommend a recipe to try. It's an American Pale Ale called "Tongue Splitter". Despite what the name may infer, the bitterness of this beer is softened somewhat by the significant amount of Cascade hops used in the process. As a result, this strong pale ale has a very citrusy, grapefruity aroma and taste which really makes this beer a winner! Recipes courtesy of Northern Brewer: Extract or All-Grain. I'll be brewing my second batch of this beer on Thursday, so photos of the process are coming soon!

There. Blog done. Now go brew some beer!

BAH!

2009-10-02T11:17:00.002-05:00

Not a long post today...just need to vent.

http://www.chicagobreakingnews.com/2009/10/barack-obama-arrives-in-copenhagen.html

Yeah. So much for Chicago's bid for the 2016 Olympic Games. Evidently, Rio and Madrid are still in the running, but who cares? Let's be honest, folks -- the major buzz over the news media during this campaign was all about Chicago. And why? Because everyone knew in their hearts that it made sense. But the yahoos on the IOC disagreed, apparently. The scuttlebutt was that the Chicago presentation "lacked focus" and "without the Obamas, it was nothing."

Oh, yeah? Nothing? Having the president and first lady of one of the most powerful nations on the planet showing up to back their city's bid isn't enough to make an impact? Wow -- you're a cynical lot. I'd be willing to be you'd even give Robert Mapplethorpe a run for his money in the desensitization marathon. It makes you wonder about the standards you set for your holiday party caterers. "Sorry, Julio -- we liked the hand-stacked cous cous, and the individually-wrapped caviar was a nice touch, but we at the IOC expect a higher level of excellence."

Arrogant bastards.

But it's cool -- I actually don't mind all that much. Remember that these idiots hail from the same countries that think the U.S. should adopt the metric system and start watching soccer. Nice try, guys, but it's not gonna happen. Whatever the final vote ends up being, the media's already delivered their verdict.

We all agree that you suck.

Anyone STILL think criminals are smart?

2009-07-30T08:38:00.004-05:00

Just a quick post today. In checking the headlines, I noticed that a young woman in Florida carjacked a driver, drove the car to a local RV dealership, and attempted to rob the place before she was subdued by the store's employees. The interesting point: she did it all while wearing nothing but a bikini (hence the media's decision to dub her the "Bikini Bandit."

Now, I'm not going to claim that there's a dress code that your average modern criminal has deviated...rather, I'm going to point out something that underscores the title of this post. Allow me to clarify. The "Bikini Bandit" threatened a driver, stole her car, and attempted to rob a store...all while claiming to have a gun (which she didn't have)...and wearing a bikini.

Let me highlight the main idea here, for those of you who might be a little slow -- she claimed to have a gun, WHILE WEARING A BIKINI!!

To the "Bikini Bandit" -- you're an idiot. Sooner or later, someone would have asked to see the gun. And I really doubt you would have instilled much fear by pointing your finger at them.

To the employees of the RV dealership -- well done. Congratulations on using your smarts.

To the woman whose car was stolen -- I'm sorry, but you're an idiot, too. Unless you're blind (and if this is the case, the fact that you were driving around only serves as further evidence of your idiocy), I think it would have been pretty plain that she didn't have a gun. And, based on the photos I saw, you could have easily taken her out.

Thus, the score so far: "Bikini Bandit": 0, RV store employees: 1.

Driver of the stolen car: -1 car. I hope you learned your lesson.

The King is Dead!!

2009-06-26T08:49:00.004-05:00

Alright, folks -- after an extended hiatus, I'm back. Life has been exceedingly busy, but I can't stand mutely on the sidelines while the current drama unfolds in front of us. We're on an express train to Crazyville, guys, and things are definitely going to get much, much worse unless we can take steps to reverse direction.

First things first, however. Yes, Michael Jackson is dead, and yes, that is tragic (especially given he has young children and he was only a couple months shy of his 51st birthday). None will deny that he was talented, nor will you be able to find a single claim that his mark on the music industry will be anything short of indelible. Nonetheless, at the risk of offending the thousands of Jackofans out there, I will state for the record that he was also one messed up freak of nature, whose personal habits and favorite hobbies were so deplorable that to bring them up in dinner conversation would make even Dr. Moreau shift uncomfortably in his seat.

I'm not going to mince words, here. To all the superfans out there, it's time to own up to the crazy! You cannot take the good without the bad! Thomas Jefferson was one of our greatest presidents, but he also owned slaves (and, oh yeah, there was that Sally Hemmings thing, too). Edgar Allen Poe was an exceptional American author and poet...but he was also a raging alcoholic. Do I need to bring up Mozart? The fact is, no matter how much you would like to focus exclusively on the pre-crazy Mikey and his musical accomplishments, it's not going to happen. And that, dear readers, is the true heart of the tragedy. MJ may have made his mark on the world, but think of how much more positive that mark may have been, if he hadn't been such a freakshow!

I'll be honest -- I'm not a fan of his music. But what I dislike even more is the fact that this world is more interested in sweeping his perverse personal life under the rug than admit the truth. To all the parents out there who actually believe he has never acted inappropriately with minors -- can you honestly claim that you would have willingly let your kids spend the night with Jacko at Neverland? Of course not! The courts may not have been able to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, but that doesn't mean you cast your kids into a veritable lion's den! Wake up! The world is full of messed-up people...and at least one of them was disguised in a Sergeant Pepper jacket and a sparkly white glove.

To be fair, I really don't hate Mr. Jackson. Rather, I hate what drove him to this point. Take several talented children, add one obsessive father, a massive record deal and numerous gold and platinum records, then toss in throngs of screaming fans, and you'll have an amoral bouillabaisse capable of drowning even Sir Galahad. The heart attack may have done him in, but it was his family, fame, and fortune that set the events in motion.

For that, MJ is to be pitied. Not deified...not revered...not emulated. Pitied.

The King is dead. And it's time for all of us to grow up and recognize the warning signs so we don't breed another one.

White Christmas....?

2008-12-24T07:40:00.002-06:00

I'd like to beat Bing Crosby with a sack of doorknobs for singing that dumb song. Oh, wait. He's dead. No matter...I'd beat him senseless anyway. Just to set the record straight, I don't dream of white Christmases -- I'm a midwesterner.

Yesterday, I was kicking back on the couch, watching "Monsters, Inc." with my wife and two daughters (hee hee...I have two daughters, now), when I was distracted by a rush of wind that blew a quarter-ton of snow off my roof and onto my front porch, all but blocking the front sidewalk completely. Normally, I wouldn't let that bother me. However, given that it's Christmas season, I feel it's pretty durn vital for Mr. McFeeley (bonus points to anyone who gets the reference) to reach the front door. Thus, I was stuck...I had to clear the snow.

I had been steadily avoiding shoveling for some time, now, but with the way things were going, my choices were few: clear the snow now, or wait for it all to melt come April. As much as I detest shoveling, I knew the right option. Still, I'm happy to say that I managed to broker a deal with my neighbor. Who owns a snowblower. Basically, I told her I'd clear her driveway and sidewalk if she'd let me use the machine to clear my own property. Ahhhhhhh....still hard work, of course, but it could've been worse!

So, I proceeded out to get the job(s) done. It went well, with the sole exception of that very thing that caused me to go outside in the first place...the wind. Do you know what happens when you try to move a couple dozen cubic yards of powdery snow with a commercial-grade snowblower when the wind is powerful enough to knock over Rosie O'Donnell after three hours at the Golden Corral buffet? I'll sum it up in one simple phrase: Frosty the SnowDan. Despite my best efforts, a respectable fraction of the snow I was attempting to move ended up encrusting my wool-draped form, dropping my core temp to the point where I was forced to do a less-then-stellar job and flee inside for warmth.

But hey -- at least I was able to finish the job! Or, so I thought. I woke up this morning to find a new pile of the white crud all over my sidewalk, driveway, and front porch. Oh, well. I'm leaving it there.

But first I'm rounding up every recording of "White Christmas" I can find and disposing of it. In a snowbank. My only fear is that its composition (being 87% pure evil) will melt the snow around it. But that's not gonna stop me. Bing's not getting out of this one.

Bah! Hospitals!

2008-12-21T02:29:00.005-06:00

It's three o'clock in the morning. I'm sitting on a somewhat hard couch, feeling exhausted but energetic at the same time. My wife is sitting upright in bed, singing softly to our little girl. Or, should I say, our new little girl. Less than 36 hours ago, we welcomed a new member of the family into the world. Eve Lorraine was born at 6:36pm on Friday, December 19, weighing in at 8 pounds, 10 ounces, and measuring a stringbean-esque 22 inches long! We're pretty stoked about the whole thing. In fact, here's a photo of the little cutie:

See? She even looks pretty when she's glaring at me for slapping a santa hat on her head after her latest feeding!

Of course, I wouldn't be me if I didn't find something to complain about. After all, I wouldn't want you to think I'm losing my edge. So, here goes: it's too cold in this room.

I know - that's pretty lame, but give me a paragraph or two...I'm just getting warmed up. (ba-dum tsssh). Seriously, our room in the hospital was nice enough to include a private bathroom, adjustable bed, TV, DVD player, and all the usual amenities, but the couch they provided was right under a bank of six windows. In the summertime, that might be considered lovely. During a Chicago winter, however, it's downright miserable. Nice job, guys! How about next time you provide me with a space heater or, failing that, a hospital-grade barrel to burn stuff in?

Here I sit, shivering beneath blankets so thin that they would have been rejected by the quality control department of Shawshank prison, feeling a draft so strong that I keep looking over my shoulder to see if the grim reaper is standing behind me like that scene from A Christmas Carol. Yes, I am cold. I, a man who prefers autumn to summer, a man who drinks ice cold beer after coming in from shoveling snow, a man whose internal body temperature routinely drives doctors to recheck their instruments (and, in one instance, sprint for the lead x-ray apron for fear I would spontaneously combust right there on the spot). It's hard to believe, but it's true.

I don't know what it is about hospitals, but I'm never comfortable there. Even when I'm there for a happy occasion (such as the birth of my second daughter, for one not-so-randomly-selected example), I'd rather be somewhere else. But then, I suppose no one is comfortable in hospitals. If they were, there'd be no motivation to heal. Go on -- tell me there's never been a time in your life when you struggled to get out of the hospital/doctor's office/etc. purely to extricate yourself from a particularly unpleasant caregiver. You see? We all think we're iconoclasts, but at the end of the day, we're all cut from the same oak.

Personally, I think it's really the lack of the faithful icon, the archetypal healer, Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy. I miss the guy, I truly do. But then, I think we all need a doctor who's willing to set bedside manner aside for a moment and tell you, point-blank, that you're being a complete wuss for refusing to let him stick a needle the size of Lurch Adams' femur into your spinal column. Because, you know you're gonna feel loads better after he's done, not to mention foolish and stupid for questioning his judgment. He's a doctor, dammit - so get better before he utters a raspy "He's dead, Jim." over your bed right before the lights go out forever.

Okay, so I'm being overly dramatic. But I think you get my point. Bedside manner is fine right up to the moment where you're the one in the Siemens-Medical adjustable bed trying to get a straight answer out of a guy who's just called your family out into the hall to discuss their "options". When that happens, I want Bones McCoy. Give it to me straight, doc, and cut right to the chase...if things are really as bad as I think they are, I'm not interested in wasting time listening to you try to find a phrase that makes "Eastern Ugumbonian Swamp Fever" sound like a trip to Chuck-e-cheese's. Oh, and get me another blanket, while you're up, Trapper John...cold kills people the same as germs, ok? Brrrr.

There...how was that? Back to my old self? Good. Now leave me alone...I've got a wife to care for and a new baby daughter to spoil.

2008-10-24T08:22:00.002-05:00

Halloween Survey

Okay...my wife just posted a Halloween survey and tagged me to contribute. Thus, I offer the following. Enjoy!

1. What was your favorite Halloween/Fall Festival costume as a child?
Hmmm...I went as a stormtrooper one year, a costume which consisted of a store-bought mask and a white shirt and pants. We didn't exactly splurge on costumes in our family. Not that I minded...the store-bought costumes of the day were twice as stupid -- you know, the spiderman mask and plastic smock that said "spiderman" on it. It's like an outfit for a superhero with no short-term memory.

2. Least favorite costume to wear?

I went as a robot one year...it was a cool costume constructed of cardboard and knobs and wires. It was also very hot and the wires poked me. At least I got candy, though.

3. Favorite candy?

Definitely Three Musketeers...loved nougat, hated peanuts! Now, I like Twizzlers, though. Still hate Mounds and Almond Joy. Coconut...bah!

4. Favorite fall treat that you baked?

Baked? We didn't do any baking! My sister and I were hyper enough after consuming a bag full of candy, and my parents were not about to contribute to the insanity.

5. What age do you think one should stop trick-or-treating?

I think my folks put a stop to it when I was twelve...probably a good idea. When you're young, it's cute to dress up as a hobo and ask for candy. When you're 17, it's just pathetic (and probably against local neighborhood ordinances).

6. What is the lamest treat you received?

A toothbrush. From a dentist. Seriously, what's up with that? More cavities mean more business for them! If you disagree with the holiday, leave your house and go see a movie before the trick or treaters arrive. Otherwise, make with the Mars bars, Dr. Highbrow!

7. Any other traditions on Oct. 31?

We always carved jack-o-lanterns. Normally, we got to scoop out the guts and Dad handled the knife, and the designs were always pretty simple, but lately, we've been going to a friend's house and carving more intricate designs (last year, I did Homestarrunner). Lots of fun!

8. What costumes will be present in your family this fall?

My daughter is going as a chick (thanks to the awesome sewing skills of my wife), and I'm going to run to Kinko's and blow up a copy of my latest 401k statement to drape across my chest. That's the scariest thing I can think of. Well, unless Em dresses up as Sarah Palin and I go as the supreme court justice swearing her in as president. That oughta freak a few people out. ;)

9. Favorite Halloween or fall movie?

Gotta go with the Simpsons Treehouse of Horror (any one from the early years of the series)...those were classic!

10. Any funny Halloween stories?

My wife wanted me to give this one...when I was a little kid (say, 7 or 8 years old), I was walking down the street and I saw this older kid with a really stupid costume. I walked up to him and told him how dumb I thought his costume was, and he responded by knocking one of my front teeth out. These days, I can admit that my action was thoughtless. However, depending on the age of the other kid, I'm forced to wonder why my folks didn't press charges. Maybe the kid was bigger than my dad. Scary.

Only in my hometown....

2008-10-14T11:38:00.005-05:00

Alright. I admit it. I come from a small town.

*How small was it??*

It was so small, until I was twelve years old, I thought the town's name was, "Resume Speed."
It was so small, the blinking yellow light on main street was replaced by a "Yield" sign, because the town council decided the light was "too flashy."
It was so small, when you enter it into Google Maps, the search results page reads, "Huh?"

Yeah. It's that small. And if you you don't believe me, get a load of this: It seems that, last Sunday at about 2:30am, a local yokel decided to make off with somebody's ride and go for a cruise. He was either drunk, or stupid, or both, because in the course of his joyride, he ended up driving through a number of yards, smashing cars, tearing up lawns, and killing little garden gnomes, finally ending up embedding the vehicle in the side of some poor guy's garage.

That's not the unique part. What makes this story special (and I mean small-schoolbus special) is the fact that the vehicle in question was not a car, truck, SUV, ATV, RV, motorcycle, bicycle, tricycle, unicycle, airplane, biplane, motorboat, rowboat, rickshaw, hovercraft, or anything else that might immediately spring to mind. No, in this particular instance, the idiot in question boosted a combine.

Yeah. That's my hometown for you...some thieves go for Corvettes or Cadillacs. Thieves in my hometown make a beeline for combines. Nice. Still, while I might doubt their taste, I suppose I have to acknowledge the price tag...most combines cost more than you paid for your house...not that it makes much of a difference. Thieves in my hometown are so stupid, even if they were able to get away with the dang thing, they'd probably just try to hock it for a case of Skoal.

Oh, well. Here's a link to the full story, if you'd like to know more.

Oh, and for those who might be wondering, the combine was totaled.

Time Traveler Dan!!

2008-10-09T09:46:00.015-05:00

Hey, loyal readers! I recently came across a rock-awesome website called Yearbookyourself.com. It's a site that allows you to upload photos of yourself and then, thanks to the magic of technology, the site slaps your face onto a whole bunch of old yearbook photos from various eras. I highly recommend you check it out. And, just to show that I make fun of myself as much as I make fun of others...well, almost as much as I make fun of others, anyway...I graciously submit the following:

1956 Tinman Dan

Captain of the Football Team, Hair by Quaker State

1970 Tinman Dan

Now, if we look toward eastern Idaho, we'll see a cold front coming down from the north..."

1976 Tinman Dan

Dang! Even this groovy turtleneck can't hide my HUGE adam's apple!

1980 Tinman Dan

Voted "Most Likely to Achieve Self-Powered Flight Using Only Shirt Collar"

1988 Tinman Dan

The sweater says, "I'm respectable." The feathered hair says, "I don't respect myself."

1990 Tinman Dan

Quote: "Awright, awright, awright...I love the high school girls - I get older, but they stay the same age!"

Post 100!!!

2008-10-01T08:21:00.003-05:00

Well, it's been a long run, but I've finally hit 100 posts! I know that's not a big deal for those of you who dash down multiple posts each day, but for me, it's a great accomplishment. And, in honor of this auspicious event, I've decided to set aside my well-used acidic keyboard in favor of one with a less nasty tone. In fact, I'm going to relate my story of internet immortality. The cool thing is, it just happened yesterday. I just got a call from my dad mere moments ago, who told me the whole thing. And you, my loyal readers, get to experience it now. Enjoy!

Alright...here's the scoop. Last night, my folks were eating dinner in a tiny little dive of a restaurant outside Carpenter, Iowa (a town of, like, 200 people). Dad went to pay the check, and ended up standing next to a couple who were eating at the bar. They struck up a conversation, and here's the gist of it, as Dad related it to me:

Guy at bar: "So...where are you from?"

Dad: "Osage" (my hometown, a quaint little burg of around 3,000 people).

Guy at bar [looking thoughtful]: "Osage, huh? I know a guy from Osage...Dan something...Tinmandan, I think...he lives in the Chicago area."

Dad: "Well, my son's name is Dan, and he lives outside of Chicago."

Guy at bar: "Really? Does he brew beer?"

Dad [a little stunned]: "Yeah."

Guy at bar: "Well -- I guess that's him, then."

Alright...how's THAT for immortality? Some guy living in Carpenter, Iowa is a fan of the blog. Excellent! I'd ask him to own up to it, but I have a fair degree of certainty that most of the people who hit this little spot in cyberspace don't exactly shout it from the rooftops. Nonetheless, I'd like to toss a little shout out to the unnamed guy in the bar in Carpenter, Iowa who chatted with my dad. Glad to hear you're a reader, and I hope you continue to visit!

There. I challenge any other bloggers out there to beat THAT for a hundredth post!

There's a First Time for Everything!

2008-09-30T06:58:00.003-05:00

Well, it's official. Despite years of business travel, as much as I consider myself a seasoned road warrior, I can still be surprised. Actually, surprised is probably the wrong word. Flummoxed fits better. For those of you not gifted with, as the president might say, "language-osity", look it up (www.wiktionary.org). Otherwise, just hang tight. You'll understand in a moment.

So, I'm currently on a business trip to New York. This morning, I left my hotel and hailed a cab. This took a few minutes...evidently, my legs aren't as shapely as they once were. Oh, well. Anyway, I hopped in the cab and told the guy to take me to 75 Ninth Avenue, expecting the typical "You betcha" answer. My cabbie's response: "Where's that?"

Oh, it's gonna be a baaaaaad day.

After pausing for a period of time I felt adequately conveyed both my shock at the situation and my utter contempt for the cabbie, I replied, "Where is it? I imagine it's on Ninth Avenue, right between number 73 and number 77." Har har har...humor sometimes helps difficult situations.

Cabbie: "No, I mean, what's the cross street?"

Me: "I don't know...I'm not from here -- all I have is the address. It's, like, less than two miles from here, so it shouldn't be that hard to find."

Cabbie: "Well, what's the neighborhood?"

Me: "Again, not from here. It's two miles away."

[No response]

Me: "It's in the Chelsea Market building."

[Still no response]

Me: "Look -- isn't that Ninth Avenue up ahead?"

Cabbie: "Umm...yeah."

Me: "Okay, so turn here and we'll see which way the numbers go."

[Cabbie turns onto Ninth Avenue]

Me: "Right -- look -- there's number 206, and then number 204, so we're headed in the right direction. If we're on Ninth Avenue, we'll get to number 75 if we keep heading this way."

Cabbie: "...I hope so..."

Needless to say, we got to number 75 a few minutes later. I exited, and the cabbie departed, sans tip. That'll teach him to either learn the city better or invest in a GPS device. What a moron!

Now, I'm sure there are those among you who may recall past posts alluding to the fact that my sense of direction is, at best, horrible...laughable, in fact. Still I feel justified in this post, given the fact that I recognized my abysmal sense of direction early on and chose a job that did not require me to rely on my pitiful navigating skills. My cabbie, on the other hand, has evidently not taken inventory of his skillset, and thus continues to subject his patrons to the fruits of his ignorance.

Color me inconsiderate, but is it too much to ask that a cab driver actually know the city in which he works? Are we not paying these people to get us where we need to go in a quick and efficient manner? If I knew how to get around in New York, I would have rented a car...it would have been twenty times more expensive, but that's not the point. It's lucky I wasn't with my pregnant wife when she went into labor..I'd hate to be looking up the hospital's address on my blackberry in between Lamaze breathing exercises, in order to provide directions to a boneheaded cab driver.

This was no way to start a morning! Here I was, well-rested, nicely dressed, ready to start a new day, and who do I get as my chauffeur but Gilligan, after taking a nose-dive into a pile of under-ripe coconuts. Prior to today, I would have had nothing bad to say about New York cabbies, so I'm willing to chalk this up to a fluke. However, the next time it happens, I'm showing the cabbie into the passenger seat and finding my own way.

After turning the meter off, that is. I may be frequently lost, but I'm not an idiot.

We're back!!

2008-09-15T08:12:00.008-05:00

It was a great weekend. Again.

On Friday, we drove to St. Joseph, Michigan, to meet up with our good friends, Jason and Sarah Short (and their three boys, Jack, Max, and Lincoln). We hung out together all the time when we all lived in Maryland, but several years and several moves later, we're in Chicago and the Shorts are in Grand Rapids, MI. Hence, St. Joseph (being roughly equidistant from both locations) is the perfect meeting spot.

We rented two cottages on the lakefront, with the intention of spending a couple days playing on the beach, wandering around through the local shops, and generally having a great time. Well, as you can see in the photos below, we came up snakeeyes on the first two. But we still had a great time. Here's what happened on Saturday morning:

The Parking Area and Side Street

The Intersection

Our front lawn...

Neither rain, nor sleet, nor FLASH FLOOD...

Oh, Good...Glad these guys could get through...

For those who doubt the depth of the water in the intersection...

Let it never be said that my wife and daughter aren't "outdoor people"

Oh, and while I didn't get a photo of it, as we were driving back to Chicago, we found that about twenty miles of I-80 were closed because of flooding. Did you catch that? They closed an eight-lane interstate highway because the water made driving impossible. We were forced to take an exit, and drive around on local streets in Indiana, sometimes through as much as 12 inches of water. It took us five hours, but we still got home safely.

But you know what? We STILL had fun!! What a weekend!

Ah...Labor Day

2008-09-02T12:28:00.002-05:00

Gotta love Labor Day...a holiday created by New York labor unions as a break for the working stiffs. Ironically enough, while the first holiday was celebrated in 1882, it wasn't until 1894 that Congress made it a national holiday.

A mere two months after the infamous May Day Riots of 1894. No fooling!

Well, the Dykstra family arrived home yesterday from our little jaunt south to Indianapolis, where we spent the weekend. We met up with a bunch of friends who are, truth be told, closer to family than friends. It all started just under thirty years ago, when I met my best friend, Brad. Shortly afterward, I got to know the rest of his family (specifically, his parents, Don and Marylou, and his sisters, Renee and Lisa). Several years after that, they all became involved in our (sometimes near-criminal) exploits (either as participants, or cooler heads who told us to knock it off). Since then, more people joined the mix, as spouses (Emily, Brian, and J.R.) and children (Morgan, Nathan, and Ethan), and now, we've got a gaggle of people who, put together, result in an exceptional weekend.

The ride out was uneventful, apart for the fact that I threw my back out at some point during the drive. This made for a less-than-enjoyable final leg of the trip to Indy, but a few hours (and several Excedrin) later, it became almost bearable. We headed to Lisa and J.R.'s place for lunch (J.R. is an awesome grill-meister, for anyone who happens to be in the Brownsburg, IN area).

After that, we went outside for several rousing games of Cornhole (a game so awesome, I may have to build my own set). Results varied, but generally, J.R. and Lisa whipped us all, possibly on account of the fact that they owned the equipment...or maybe the rest of us just sucked. It was loads of fun anyway.

The next day, we did pretty much the same thing, with dinner that night being carryout barbecue from an awesome place in the area...I'm not sure of the name of the place, so don't ask. Maybe one of the group who reads this would be good enough to enter it into the comments. Otherwise, you're outta luck. Suffice to say, it rocked, and I wish I was still there, sitting at a table with a nice rack of ribs in front of me...mmmmm.

In addition to much drinking (beer brewed, of course, by yours truly), we ended each night with many games, including Hand and Foot, The Great Dalmuti, and Winner's Circle. Check 'em out if you aren't familiar with them...they're all excellent. Perhaps next time, we'll get around to Settlers of Catan or Circus Maximus.

Yeah, we're a bunch of geeks. Big deal. It was fun, and I'm already looking forward to the next time. So, to any members of the Ahrens, Peterson, or Thomas families who might be among my readers, thanks for a great time. We all loved it!!

Settin' aside the anger...for now...

2008-08-18T09:44:00.009-05:00

Wow...it's been forever since I've posted a blog entry. I guess I'd better get on the stick. Today's entry is going to be a quick one, for two reasons. The first is, I'm busy, and I need to get cracking on the proverbial inbox. The second is, I've got some news, and I'm anxious to share it. If you happen to read my wife's blog, you already know the news, but since I have pictures, I think you'll like it anyway.

Here's the scoop. As you know, Em is currently 22 weeks pregnant. Well, this past Friday, we found out that we're having another girl. Here's the photo:

Yeah, I know -- it's kinda like looking at scrambled cable. To give you non-parents a little assistance, I took the liberty of adding some enhancements.

Yeah. I'm in trouble.

Idiot Drivers!!

2008-07-10T11:19:00.004-05:00

I can't stand bad drivers! And I'm not just talking about people who feel it's their moral duty to cruise down the interstate at fifteen miles under the speed limit. No, I'm referring to those moronic individuals who, thanks to their incredibly poor motoring skills, make the world more dangerous for the rest of us.

Want some examples? Good. I have two.

Monday morning, I was driving to the train station when I needed to turn left onto a fairly busy street. I pulled into the turning lane behind four other drivers and anxiously awaited the appearance of that flighty mistress, the green left-turn arrow. It appeared a few minutes later, at which point the driver in the front of the group of soon-to-be-turners pulled out into the middle of the intersection, turned slightly, and then stopped. STOPPED! Dead in the middle of the intersection, no less! A cursory glance at the rear of his car indicated the absence of hazard blinkers, and the exhaust spewing from his tailpipe made it obvious that he was not out of gas. No, this idiot stopped simply to let several cars in the oncoming lane turn right. RIGHT!!! He stopped in the middle of the intersection, under a GREEN ARROW, so three other cars could turn right. As you might imagine, I laid on the horn.

Unfortunately, given that I was driving a '97 Corolla (my wife's old car -- we traded my car for the new minivan), this action did not have the impact I desired. Put simply, my horn sounded like the road runner after an overdose of quaaludes. Meeeep. Oh, well. The dolt finally decided to turn, and I was on my way.

As you might imagine, I was pretty cheesed off. I cooled down over the course of the day, and then took revenge on a similar driver.

Fast forward to the end of the day. I was walking to the train station, eagerly anticipating my ride home for the evening. Upon reaching the intersection of Washington and Wacker, I awaited the pedestrian walk signal as several cars sped past. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a silver Cadillac CTS to my left, preparing to turn right once (I assumed) I and my fellow pedestrians had finished crossing the street.

Well, the walk signal appeared, and I, along with half a dozen others, took a step off the curb, just as the Caddy hammered on the gas, pulling a hard right directly in front of us. In case you might be wondering how close I came to becoming a hood ornament, as I turned suddenly when I heard the tires squeal, the car bumped my right arm as it passed. Had I stepped off the curb a moment earlier, I would have been a goner. As it was, I came out unscathed. I cannot say the same for the Cadillac.

As the car bumped my right arm, I yelled at the driver, and pushed my fist as hard as I could against the car as it pulled away. This would have been a futile gesture, to be sure, were it not for the fact that I was wearing my large, gold "knucklebuster" college class ring. I dug a deep scratch, about 18" long, down to the bare metal. Put simply, I'd hate to be that guy's car, once the rain hits. And, in case you were wondering, revenge is indeed as sweet as people say.

Bad drivers, beware! You'd better improve your driving skills pretty darn pronto, or the rest of us might just skip the middleman (that's you, Einstein), and take our aggression out on your car. It's more fun.

Students really are getting dumber....or are they?

2008-07-02T14:17:00.004-05:00

Well, it's official. Western civilization is officially on the downhill slope. This morning, I read a news article in which a British student scrawled the phrase "F*** off" when faced with the question, "Describe the room you are sitting in." This doesn't offend (or, for that matter, surprise) me. Nor am I upset that the above question, included in an English language exam, actually ends with a preposition. No, what annoys me is that the student was actually given points for his answer.

Not full marks, mind you, but marks nonetheless. He was awarded 7.5% for accurate spelling and effective communication. And what's more, the teacher remarked that he would have received more points if he had included punctuation. His quote was, "If it had had an exclamation mark it would have got a little bit more because it would have been showing a little bit of skill".

Skill?!! Skill?!! Are you freaking kidding me? A mere exclamation point is the litmus test between nominal ability and skill? This planet is in a steeper decline than your average pop star's career! What's next -- will "walking" and "breathing" be elective courses at the local community college?

Don't laugh...I've seen classes at CC that really aren't that far off.

Still, let that be a lesson to all you mouth-breathing troglodytes out there. If you hit a question that forces you to fire up the neurons and direct their computing power away from the usual "find food, get woman, stay alive" notions, just curse...you'll express yourself clearly and, if you throw a couple exclamation points at the end, you may even pass the test.

Ugh. I think I'll go bang my head against the wall for a while so I don't feel quite so disgusted. As long as I still know how to use punctuation when I swear, I'll be alright.

Stupid phone solicitors!!

2008-06-26T10:44:00.003-05:00

Well, it's time for my monthly blog entry! Hope you enjoy it, because I have no idea when I'll have time for the next one. ;)

So, a week ago, I got a call from my mortgage company, who attempted to offer me the "once in a lifetime" deal to sign up for what was, essentially, a home warranty. You homeowners know what I'm talking about -- basically, you fork out $400 and then if something goes wrong with your house (assuming it's on the list of pre-approved things that the company is willing to fix), you can call a contractor (assuming it's the one contractor approved by the company to do the work in question), and he'll come out and survey the problem and, after you fork over a $60 deductible, may choose to fix the problem. If he feels like it. Which he may not. And you'll still be out the $60.

As you can imagine, we've been burned on this type of thing before.

Anyway, the call came in a week ago, and while I normally tell phone solicitors to go pound sand, I decided to take the call. Here's a run down of the conversation:

*Ring, Ring....Ring, Ring*

*Click*

Me: Hello?

Citibank: Hello...Mr....Dy...Dy...Dy-kes-tra?

Me: *sigh* Yeah...that's me...what's up?

Citibank: Hello, Mr. Dy-kes-tra. As a valued Citibank customer, I'm calling to talk to you about our new TotalProtect program that will offer you coverage in the event of problems with your furnace, air conditioner, or any other aspect of your home for the next year. Mr. Dy-kes-tra, this coverage can begin immediately, and you will have up to $15,000 worth of coverage...

Me: *sigh* *puts down phone* *flips through the channels to catch the end of "Law and Order"* *picks up phone*

Citibank: ...will come out to your house to review the problem and fix it, with only a $60 deductible to you. Mr. Dy-kes-tra, this program is being offered exclusively to valued customers like you...

Me: *sigh* *puts down phone again* *flips through the channels again* *picks up phone again*

Citibank: ...will have the freedom to review this program in the comfort of your own home for 30 days, after which you can cancel the service, or choose to continue it at the low, low price of only $35 per month. So, I'd just like to enroll you and your coverage can begin immediately. Can I get some information from you?

Me: Lemme ask you a few questions first. We've had issues with home warranties in the past, owing to the fact that we are forced to work only with your approved contractors, who, in our opinion, are not generally the sharpest knives in the drawer. Get what I'm saying?"

Citibank: *silence*

Me: Soooo, before I agree to anything can I get some information and then sign up, if I think it's a good idea?

Citibank: Well, Mr. Dy-kes-tra, as I said, you will have the opportunity to review this program in the comfort of your home for 30 days, and then you can cancel if you don't like it...

Me: Right. I got that part, but in order to cancel, I would first have to be signed up for the program, yeah?

Citibank: Yes. We can enroll you right now. All I need is some information from you, and I can send the materials out to you, so you can...

Me: See, that's my issue. I don't want to be enrolled until I can review the program. Can't you just send me the info and let me sign up if I determine if meets my needs?

Citibank: Well, Mr. Dy-kes-tra, I should mention that you can use this service as often as you like during the year, up to a total benefit of $15,000, with only a $60 deductible per maintenance call.

Me: Umm...yeah...again, I'm clear on that part. No misunderstanding on this end. All I want to know is whether I can read about the program before I sign up for it.

Citibank: You can review the program in the comfort of my own home for 30 days and then cancel...

Me: Okay...evidently I'm not getting through. Please listen closely: I'm not signing up for anything until I have a chance to review it first.

Citibank: Well, Mr. Dy-kes-tra, we will be giving you a lot of time to look over the program materials once we enroll you in the program, so you should have no problems with...

Me: Alright...I'll try to make this more clear: Me no sign until read materials! Read first, maybe sign later!

Citibank: Well, Mr. Dy-kes-tra, this is an exclusive offer we are making to our valued customers, so, Mr. Dy-kes-tra, we'd just like to enroll you in the program so you can...

Me: Grrrr...valued customer getting annoyed! Unless you can send me the materials without enrolling me in the program, I want nothing to do with it!!

Citibank: Well, this is our policy, and we can only...

Me: Alright. I've had enough. Don't sign me up for anything. I want nothing to do with this program, and that's final. Goodbye.

Citibank: *pause* Okay, well, Mr. Dy-kes-tra, thank you for your ti-

Me: *hang up* Da**! I missed the end of "Law and Order"!!

Yup. You've all been there. I lost ten minutes of my life, arguing with someone who couldn't even pronounce my name correctly. I hope you all have better days.

I am a brewing machine!

2008-05-27T13:13:00.005-05:00

How did I spend my Memorial Day weekend? Well, I did a lot of work, to be frank about it. Between mowing and trimming the lawn, cleaning and filling Morgan's kiddie pool, running errands, keeping an eye on Morgan (and being sick through it all - sore throat since Thursday night), I managed to get to the brew shop before utterly collapsing from exhaustion.

I had a Steam-style beer that was ready to be bottled, since that's the brew I'll be bringing to Google in three weeks for our after-work party. As Google paid for the ingredients and the bottles (see my previous entry), I figured I'd better get on the stick. Also, my attempt at a facsimile of Sam Adams' Cherry Wheat (made using a recipe for Weizenbier with an addition of a bunch of cherry juice) was ready for bottling, too, so I got that done as well. And, since I had the ingredients for an American Cream Ale sitting all by their lonesome (thanks to the recent trip to the brew shop), I decided to cook up that batch on Monday. It was a great day, and I enjoyed myself immensely.

So, I now have nine batches under my belt, including the ones described above that are still in various stages of completion. Overall, in a few weeks, I should be well-stocked for some hot summer days. Not to say that I'm going to stop brewing for the summer -- this is the perfect time to do it! Nice warm days, kicking back on the deck in a patio chair with the brewpot bubbling away nearby...it's great fun! So if anyone wants to pop by and visit, feel free! My fridge is full, and I've got enough different stuff that there should be something for everyone!

At this point, I'm going to give a shout out to my beautiful wife for getting me started on this hobby. Thanks, honey! You rule!

Wow

2008-05-27T13:13:00.001-05:00

We have corporate sponsorship!!

2008-04-25T14:03:00.005-05:00

Well, it's official! The Durn Fool Brewing Company has been given corporate sponsorship by none other than Google, Inc.! Eat your heart out, Jeff Gordon! You and the rest of your fume-spewing, tobacco-chewing, inbred hicks can nibble all you'd like on the table-scrap corporations like Pepsi and Frito-Lay, but I've got the best brand in the world. So there!

As part of their focus on employee satisfaction, Google hosts a small gathering every other Friday for employees in each office. They serve food, wine, and, most importantly, beer. Since Googlers (translation: Google employees) often host these parties and bring in guest speakers or special food items, I petitioned the powers that be to let me host one on craft brewing. They agreed. Thus, in addition to my regular duties in the North American Advertising Sales Organization, I am also being paid to brew beer for the little gathering (taking place on June 16). Of course, they're really only covering the cost of the materials, so I'm not exactly turning a profit here, but it's sponsorship nonetheless.

Perhaps I'll have to come up with a special "Googlerbrew" recipe. We'll see. For now, I'm going to be brewing a steam-style beer for the event, in addition to bringing in a few other selections from my inventory (i.e. oktoberfest, ESB, cherry ale, etc.). Another Googler is joining me in this little endeavor, and will be brewing a continental pilsner to share as well. All in all, it should be a grand time. I'll provide more details soon.

Or maybe I won't. You never can tell, can you? ;)

My Ten Thoughts

2008-04-04T15:59:00.003-05:00

My wife, Em, recently wrote a list of ten thoughts on her blog. I thought they were pretty darn creative, so I thought I'd provide a list of my own. They're probably a little less creative and a little more random, but they're all me.

1. Does anyone actually believe that the $600-per-person "economic stimulus plan" will actually avoid the recession into which we are currently slipping?

2. Why is the speed of my computer inversely correlated with the amount of time I have to get something done?

3. What metaphor do brain surgeons and rocket scientists use when they want to convey that a task is easy (i.e. they can't very well say, "It's not brain surgery!")?

4. If children really are our future, why are teachers paid so poorly?

5. Will my wife ever really understand that I couldn't find a better woman than her in a million years?

6. Why is Russian such a #@*##!! hard language to learn?

7. If geniuses tend to choose the color green, what do idiots choose?

8. What would life have been like if Martha Stewart's good twin had won the duel to the death?

9. Will there ever be a school who chooses the chipmunk as their mascot?

10. I'm tired of this now. I'm going for a beer.

Holy slow fermentation, Batman!!

2008-04-01T13:55:00.002-05:00

Wow...it's been a long time since I've written an entry, huh? I've been busy...I'm sure most, if not all, of you can relate.

Anyway, I had the chance to check on the Angry Dutchman's ESB, which I cooked up on March 16 -- two weeks ago on Sunday. Well, whereas all of my beers to date have gone through the primary fermentation in the space of one week, this one was different. Really different.

The starting gravity was 1.060, so I knew from the outset that it would take a little longer, so I gave it an extra week. However, when I took a sample to check the progress, I found that the gravity was only 1.020, as opposed to the calculated final gravity of around 1.015. Now, for the non-brewers among you, this means that the fermentation is taking a looooong time. After two weeks, I expected it to be done. As it stands, it'll probably be another week before I can transfer it to the secondary fermenter in order to get it nice and crystal clear.

I'm going to have to brew a faster beer next time around. I don't have the patience for this. Luckily, I have three types of beer that are in various stages of drinkability (two are very drinkable, one slightly drinkable). So every time I check the ESB (and am disappointed by the results), at least I have a nice cold one in which to drown my sorrows.

Another update soon...sooner this time. By Sunday, I'll post the latest photo of the brew!

Finally bottled the black cherry ale!

2008-03-03T15:39:00.008-06:00

Well, it's been a solid month, but last night, I finally got around to putting my batch of black cherry ale in bottles, and from the look of it, it's going to be a good beer. First of all, because it spent so long in the secondary fermenter (the aforementioned month), and because I added Irish Moss to the mix, the beer was crystal clear. Seriously -- not at all cloudy. I'm stoked, because my previous attempts have resulted in dark, somewhat cloudy brews. Granted, as an amateur brewer, that's to be expected, but I was hoping for a beer with better clarity this time around. I think I've got it. Second, the beer was a very dark red in color (as a result of the 3 quarts of cherry juice I added to the mix)...can't wait to see it after the bottle conditioning phase is finished.

I'll try to take a picture soon and post it -- perhaps you can see what I mean.
Now, my next brew is really going to be an experiment. While to this point I've played around with the recipes from brewing kits, my next batch is going to be my first attempt at crafting my own recipe from scratch. In addition, I'll be using a couple new techniques to get the lighter color that has heretofore eluded me. The beer I've decided to make is an English ESB, or Extra Special/Strong Bitter. This is a type of beer that the Brits love, and given its light color and strong hop content, I think I'll like it, too. At any rate, I'm going to see what I can come up with. For those brewers among you, here's my original recipe (the name comes from the bitterness...I thought a bitter Dutchman might like a correspondingly bitter beer):

Dan's Angry Dutchman ESB
- 6.5 lbs dry light malt extract
- 0.40 lbs crushed crystal malt (40L)
- 0.40 lbs crushed pale malt (2 row)
- 1.0 oz Northern Brewer hops (1st flavoring)
- 1.0 oz Williamette hops (2nd flavoring)
- 0.5 oz Cascade hops (finishing)
- 1 pkg Danstar Nottingham dry yeast

Confused yet? Well, no worries. I'll post the results in a couple weeks. The tentative plan is to brew on the 15th, provided everything falls into place. After that, I should at least know whether the color is correct. As for the taste, well, that'll take a bit longer. I'm betting on a very bitter, light-colored beer with some nice floral tones.

Stay tuned for more info. Oh, and no naughty stealing my recipe and renaming it as your own. For good or ill, this one's mine.

Betrayed by one of my very own!!

2008-02-21T10:09:00.004-06:00

Grrrr...I hate flying coach. Or in any seat that's not by the emergency exit or directly adjacent to a bulkhead. And if you've been reading my blog for any duration whatsoever, you know why. In a work, legroom. That's all. I can deal with screaming children, bad food, or rude flight attendants, but I must have a seat that doesn't require me to stow my legs safely in the overhead compartment.

Now, being a tall guy, I am especially considerate of those around me. I do not, under any circumstances, recline my seat on an airplane if there is an adult sitting behind me. If I'm in front of a child or an empty seat, I'll recline, but otherwise, never. Well, when I flew out to Mountain View two days ago, a guy very close to my own height had the seat right in front of me. I thought to myself, "Hey -- this guy's gotta understand the rules...at least I'll have a little room." Sorry, Charlie. As soon as the wheels left the runway, this guy threw the seat back so far, I lacked even the minuscule space required to open my sudoku book. And then, to make matters even worse, he must have felt that even that wasn't enough, as he rammed the seat back three more times in a vain attempt to recline even further.

This could not stand. I bore the pain like a trooper for twenty minutes until the guy got up to use the restroom, and then I repositioned myself. And this time, I didn't aim for the kidneys like I usually do -- that would have been enough for a person of average height, but a tall guy needs special consideration.

When he returned and took his seat, I jammed my right knee directly into his spine (roughly around the third or fourth lumbar vertebra, for the medical students among you). He felt that. He moved around. I moved my knee to match. He leaned forward. I pushed harder. He shifted left and right. So did I. It was kinda fun, if you ignore the sharp pain in my knees. We continued this for a half hour before he sat back and endured it. And that's how the flight went for the remaining two and a half hours.

The moral of the story is this: If I'm going to be in pain for nearly four hours, so is he. We can either both be mildly uncomfortable, or we can both be in agony, and the choice was up to him. The good news was, I could walk off my pain. I'm betting he didn't sleep or sit well for several days.

Petty, you say? Yup. But I don't care. If you're flying near tall people like me, have some consideration, or you'll pay. So there.

Givin' credit where it's due...

2008-02-19T13:55:00.005-06:00

Hey readers...I realized all too late that I neglected to give some credit to my wife for an outstanding bit of tailoring she did for me recently. I've been complaining for some time now that my carboys (those glass jugs I use in my beermaking process) needed covers. The reason for this is that light (and especially fluorescent light) can destroy beer by adding nasty off-flavors...think the reverse process of making sun tea.

That's why beer is bottled in green or brown glass. Sorry, Corona drinkers -- your best bet is to buy it only if it's boxed. Buying a 22-oz bottle from a grocery cooler is a quick jaunt into "bleacch" territory.

Anyway, for this reason, I've always covered my carboys with overturned cardboard boxes when in the basement. My problem with this was twofold. First, the boxes did nothing to insulate the beer from getting too cold, and second, boxes look as white-trash as you can get. Thus, I wanted carboy covers stitched out of some reasonably warm fabric. I told Em what I was looking for, and picked up some nice, toasty fleece, and a few days later, I had two excellent carboy covers!

Isn't she great, folks?

I'll post some photos in a few days, but for the moment, know that my wife is awesomely talented, and I really appreciate her work.

And no, for those who asked, I did not write this in response to her wonderful post last night. So there.

Expanding the brewery...

2008-02-18T13:06:00.010-06:00

Prior to this point, I've always used my grill to boil the ingredients for each brew, but this last time (chronicled a few posts ago), it was a major hassle to drag that big thing from the backyard, and it was then that I decided that I had had enough. Thus, I am now the proud owner of a 30-quart turkey fryer, including a nice propane burner (similar to the one shown in the photo). I haven't used it yet, but I have high hopes that it'll perform at least as well, and perhaps even better, than my grill. Plus, as an added bonus, I can pick up the burner with one hand and store it easily in the garage. In addition, because of the Sears gift card that I received from my parents for Christmas (thanks, Mom and Dad), my out of pocket cost for this little baby was a mere ten bucks. Hurrah! Cheap and useful! Who could ask for anything more?!

Anyway, I bottled the batch of European Bock this weekend, ending up with around 50 bottles of the stuff. In two weeks or so, I'll let you know how it turned out. Now, of course, my attention turns to the next batch. Em was encouraging me to do another German Oktoberfest, since it turned out so well, but as there are so many styles I haven't tried yet, I'm afraid I'll have to wait on that one for a bit. Don't worry, Em -- I'll do the Oktoberfest again soon! :)

Rather, my next batch is going to be a classic English bitter. The English, apart from drinking warm beer (a practice which I have yet to adopt), also like their beer very bitter. From a practical standpoint, this means I'll need to up the content of hops in the beer to kick up the IBUs (International Bittering Units). It shouldn't be too difficult, but I'm going to speak to a few guys at the homebrew shop first...I don't want the beer to be undrinkable. Unsatisfactory beer I can handle. Undrinkable beer I can't. If I want undrinkable beer, I'll buy a case of Miller or Bud.

No, I'm not sorry. American beer is swill, and if you enjoy it, that's your own problem. Quality beats quantity any day of the week.

Anyway, I'll let you know more about the brew plans as the days progress. At present, I'm hoping to do another brew day with Piet on Saturday, but that'll depend on whether or not our wives will be up for it. Let's hope so.

Talk to you guys later!

Tagged!

2008-02-12T09:00:00.001-06:00

Well, my wife tagged me. Not, you know, in the sense that I'm now wandering through the wilderness with a plastic number stapled through my ear and an electronic bracelet around my ankle (presumably so she could track my ongoing progress in the wild). No, she was challenged by a friend to a little blogging game in which the participants choose a book, turn to page 125, skip the first five lines on the page, and then post the next three. Thus, I offer my submission.

"But roused swift Boreas, and the billows broke
Before Ulysses, that, deliver'd safe
From a dire death, the noble Chief might mix
With maritime Phaecia's sons renown'd."

There. Take that.

You'll note that I included four lines; this was by design. Had I stopped at three, it would have been incomprehensible.

Marc, Jason, Sarah...tag, you're it.

Congratulations! It's a bock!!

2008-02-11T08:18:00.000-06:00

Alright...I admit it. I went to the brew shop again this weekend. Of course, it was always in the plan, since Em asked me to watch Morgan on Saturday morning, and I thought we could run a few errands (culminating with a trip to Fox Valley Homebrew, of course). The nice thing is, Morgan is always excited to go there, because they have a basket of Dum Dum suckers next to the cash register, and I always allow Morgan to take one if she is obedient while we're in the shop. Anyway, I selected the ingredients for a traditional European Bock (a very malty, less bitter German brew that is traditionally served in the springtime). And, while I initially figured I wouldn't get to start the brew until later this week, Em and Morgan took long naps on Saturday, giving me ample time to cook up another batch. Hooray! I had the foresight this time to bring the camera with me, in order to document the process, since I know many of you are visual learners...enjoy!

STEP 1: ORGANIZE YOUR BREWSTATION
Ah, my glorious Weber grill, which has served me well on numerous brews (not to mention lots of wienie roasts). I decided to brew indoors this time, on account of the cold weather outside. I learned last time that, when one brews outdoors when the weather is even slightly chilly, it takes forever to get the water to a full boil. On the other hand, boiling water inside a heated garage is easy.

STEP 2: ORGANIZE YOUR INGREDIENTS
Here, you see the grains I'm using, in addition to the bittering and finishing hops. The malt extract is not pictured, as it was relaxing in a sink full of hot water, in order to soften it so it would pour more easily. As I may have mentioned in previous posts, this stuff normally has the consistency of molasses, and heating it up a bit makes it more like maple syrup, which is a big improvement, if you ask me.

STEP 3: FILL THE BREWSOCK
Really simple step here. Take those specialty grains and pour 'em into a muslin sock and tie a knot at the top. Essentially, you're creating a big 'ol teabag that you'll toss into the heated water, allowing the grains to lend color and body to the brew. This isn't always a necessary step, but I think it improves the finished beer.

STEP 4: STEEP THE GRAIN
As you can see, I've dropped the filled brewsock into two gallons of heated spring water. The idea here is to let the water get up to around 170 degrees and maintain a sub-boiling temperature to let the bag steep for 20 minutes or so. This steeping will start coloring your wort (unfermented beer, FYI) immediately. See the photos below:

Appearance after steeping for five minutes...

Appearance after steeping for ten minutes...

STEP 5: OOPS!! DRINK!!
Silly me. I forgot the primary rule of brewing beer: Always drink a beer while you are brewing a new batch! Can't believe I forgot this one. Anyway, since my beer is currently fermenting or aging, I couldn't sample one of my own. Instead, I went with a wheat beer recently brewed by my friend, Piet! I must say, it was quite good! Kudos to Piet and his excellent weizenbier! I'm looking forward to his next brew, a German altbier!

STEP 6: ADD MALT EXTRACT
Once the twenty minute steeping time is finished, I removed the grain bag and pitched it into the trash (a moment of silence, please). Then, after bringing the wort to a boil, I poured in 6 pounds of liquid malt extract. Once in the pot, this stuff starts to froth and has a tendency to stick to the bottom of the kettle. The solution: stir like a man possessed! Once the frothing subsides, proceed to the next step...but DON'T LET GO OF THAT SPOON!! You're going to need it.

STEP 7: ADD BITTERING HOPS
Remember the need to stir when you added the extract? Well, kick it up a notch for this step. For some reason, the addition of hops to boiling water causes the water to foam like crazy. I mean it. See this photo? By the time those little pellets hit the water, it foamed up so fast, I barely had time to set the camera down and grab my spoon before the pot boiled over! Tenacious little buggers, those hop pellets!

STEP 8: BOIL
This is the boring part. After adding the extract and hops, you'll need to boil the water for 55 minutes. Ugh. This is why guys brew with friends. Otherwise, you're just a sad, lonely guy cooking stuff in a garage. Personally, I'm anxious for spring to get here...it'll be a lot more fun brewing beer when I can sit out in the driveway and relax during the boil phase. If I keep brewing in the garage, I might be tempted to move a small TV out here.

STEP 9: ADD FINISHING HOPS
Now that the boil phase is done, toss in your finishing hops and let 'em cook for about five minutes. When that's done, you can turn off the heat. The cooking part of this little endeavor is complete.

STEP 10: CHILL, CHILL, CHILL!!
This is the point in which you completely reverse direction. All the steps up to this one have involved heating your wort in order to dissolve large quantities of malt and hops into it. Now, you need to cool the wort down in order that you don't kill the yeast when you add it. I haven't yet invested in a wort chiller, but the ice water bath method shown at left works extremely well. It cooled two gallons of boiling wort down to around 90 degrees in about 10-15 minutes. Granted, I had to add new ice every few minutes, but that's a small price to pay.

STEP 11: ENTER THE FERMENTER!
I moved the operation down to the basement, otherwise known as "Dan's brew shop" -- one of my favorite places in the house. After pouring two gallons of cold spring water into the carboy (that's the big glass jar sitting on the floor), I needed to add the wort. Here's where that siphoning equipment comes in mighty handy. Unless you have a good strainer, you don't want to pour the wort into the carboy -- there a whole bunch of sediment from the hops and the steeping grains at the bottom of the pot, and you don't want that in the carboy. As you can see in the photo, I used a handy auto-siphon (recommended by my good friend and fellow brewmeister, Jason) to transfer the wort to the carboy. Now comes the mixing.

STEP 12: MIXING
Now that you have two gallons of wort and two gallons of water, add another gallon of water to bring the final mix up to five gallons, and then mix them up a bit. While I could buy a long spoon or an attachment for my drill, I choose the low-tech solution (kinda out of character for a Googler, I know). I dip some plastic wrap in sanitizing solution, cover the top of the carboy with the plastic wrap, pick up the carboy, and shake the heck out of it. You can see the result at left. Nicely mixed wort, good foam.

STEP 13: PITCHING THE YEAST
Here's where the magic happens! Cut open the yeast packet, pour the contents into the carboy, and, once again, mix it up. This serves two purposes. First, it mixes the yeast throughout the wort, and second, it aerates the wort (as oxygen is helpful to the process). I was a tad overzealous in my mixing during this phase, as you can see in the photo...lots and lots of foam.

STEP 14: LOCK IT UP...AND WAIT
The closing phase before primary fermentation. Fill a gallon jug half full with sanitized water. Then, take a blowoff tube (essentially, four feet of one-inch diameter vinyl hose) and insert one end into the neck of the carboy and the other end into the jug of water. This will allow air to escape the carboy (because the yeast will be producing CO2 in addition to alcohol), while keeping everything else out. Now that this is complete, you get to clean up the mess and let your fermenter sit for a week or so before transferring it to a secondary fermenter or bottling.

So what do you think? Anyone want to get into this hobby? C'mon - we need more people to join the club! You know you want to!! :)

Bah! Stupid Trains Again!!

2008-02-08T07:50:00.001-06:00

Well, here I am. Again. Stuck on the train. We've been sitting here for the last thirty minutes, due to, evidently, "mechanical issues." Now, while I normally have good things to say about Metra, given the fact that they enable me to save the time, trouble, and money of driving into the city each and every day, it's days like these that make me wish I had passed the train station parking lot and kept on going.

The worst thing about it is, the Metra guys failed to shut off the intercom after they made their last standard announcement ("sorry for the inconvenience...we'll be moving soon"), so for the last ten minutes, we've been listening in to every communication among the members of the repair team. Do you know how disconcerting it is to hear a repair team say things like, "Man, nothing's working on this train!" and "Well, I'm outta ideas"?

Their latest announcement was a classic, though. "Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the further delay, and we'll let you know if anything changes."

Did you catch that? If. IF anything changes. According to the repair guys, there's a good chance I'll be stuck on this train for the remainder of my life. Someone tell my wife and daughter I love them, and have the post office forward my mail to the stalled Metra train on the BNSF rail. We're somewhere between Aurora and Chicago.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to see if amazon.com sells snowshoes.

Bottling day has arrived!

2008-02-04T12:29:00.000-06:00

Made some progress on the brewing front this weekend. Despite the Super Bowl taking place on Sunday, I was determined to get a few things done. First, I managed to bottle my Scotch Ale, which has been lounging in the secondary fermenter for a week. I ended up with around 50 bottles, which was a good yield. Now, I just need to wait a couple weeks to see if my labor has been worthwhile. Second, as soon as I emptied the secondary fermenter, I cleaned it out and transfered the Black Cherry Ale from the primary into the secondary. This wait will be significantly longer. While I'll probably bottle it in a couple weeks, I'll need to let it sit in the bottles for a couple months before I can sample it. But that should work out alright -- Black Cherry Ale is a spring beer, so at least I'll be drinking it in season.

Provided it doesn't suck, that is. ;)

Apart from that work, I also managed to stew up a pot full of chili. I've been working on my own recipe for chili, and my last couple pots have been quite good. They haven't been super hot (I'd rather that friends and family are willing and able to sample it), but it's got a good bite to it. Lots of meat, lots of beans, and fresh peppers (jalapeno and serrano, to be precise). I like it. Plus, making a bit pot of the stuff means leftovers. Mmmmmm....leftovers.

Oh, and I watched the Super Bowl...what a yawner! I actually fell asleep twice. I suppose I would have been more into it, had I cared a bit about the outcome, but such was not the case. Maybe next year I'll put some money on the game...at least then I'll be somewhat interested.

WFH!

2008-02-01T10:23:00.000-06:00

It means "working from home" -- shorthand used by my fellow Googlers whose attention span barely exceeds that of a ferret on a venti double-shot caramel macchiato. No offense, Googlers -- I'm one of you, remember?

Anyway, if you've read this morning's entry in my wife's blog, you'll know that we got blanketed with snow last night. It's still falling, and while I don't get a "snow day" from work, the fact that my street has yet to be plowed means that I am exercising my option to work from home. It's a pretty decent option, I must say. Granted, I am in the basement, sitting at the desk I normally reserve for my brewing activities, but I don't mind. This is the only place no one else goes, and on days like these, I really need a quiet place to work.

Speaking of my brewing endeavors, I'll give a steaming batch of hot, fresh kudos to my friend and fellow brewmeister, Piet Disselkoen, who recently bottled his first batch of homebrewed beer - a wheat beer, in point of fact. Now, we just need to wait for about two weeks to try it out! Can't wait! This Sunday, I'm planning on following Piet's lead by bottling my Scotch Ale. Assuming I can get to the brew shop to get more bottles...never can have too many bottles. :)

My morning...

2008-01-31T07:36:00.000-06:00

I missed my train this morning. I got to the station on time, parked my car, and proceeded to the parking kiosks to pay my daily two dollars. Since my card was empty, I was going to charge it up again, but time was of the essence, so I opted instead to pay my parking fee in cash. I entered my space number, pushed in a buck, and...nothing happened. Then I hit cancel...nothing happened again. I hit some other buttons...still, nothing happened (sensing a pattern here?). The machine wouldn't take another dollar, so evidently, my buck got jammed in the machine -- not far enough out for me to extricate it, but not far enough in for the machine to recognize it. So I'm out a buck and the train is approaching.

I had no other choice but to charge up my card and then use the card to pay for parking, which would not have been a big deal, were it not for the fact that these are two separate transactions, separated by about thirty seconds (time for the machine to "think" about what you're trying to do). I managed to get it done, grab my receipts, and run down the ramp and under the tracks (the inbound train leaves from the south side). Emerging on the other side, I sprinted up the stairs and rounded the corner with just enough time to see the doors close. I heard the brakes release and watched helplessly as my train trundled away.

It's not really a big deal. I don't have any meetings this morning, and there was another one fifteen minutes later. But it still angers me. Technology, which I generally regard as a friend, betrayed me today. And took my dollar as well.

Stupid parking kiosks.

Black Cherry Ale: Day 3

2008-01-29T07:37:00.000-06:00

Couldn't sleep much...probably had something to do with the fact that I was stuck on an unmoving, stuffy Metra train for three hours last night (see my previous post). I'm happy to say that my laptop battery died only ten minutes before we pulled into the Route 59 station, so at least I wasn't deprived of some form of entertainment (not that the other passengers weren't entertaining...it's funny to watch people bristle when their schedules are infringed upon and they have no one to blame for it). Still, I suppose it could have been worse. At least I had a seat...the train was packed last night, and some passengers had to stand for the full three hours. Sorry about that.

Anyway, on to my insomnia. I woke up at 3am and decided to head downstairs to see if the activity in my primary fermenter had slowed at all. It had not. There was the same bubbling and frothing that I witnessed yesterday morning, but with about three inches of krausen (aka yeasty beer foam) floating on top. This is a very good sign, as it means the yeast is busy at work, eating sugar and producing alcohol and CO2. In another 5 days or so, I'll bottle the Scotch Ale (currently residing in the secondary fermenter) and transfer the Black Cherry Ale from the primary into the secondary. So far, I enjoy having a couple batches going on...it's fun. It'll be more fun once I can sample it, but given the ease of this process, I'm not concerned. It'll be good enough to drink, I'm sure. It might not taste the best, but it'll be drinkable.

But now, as I march steadily on toward the bottling phase, I'm struck with the question of what I should brew next. Given I've exclusively brewed ales to this point, I think it'd be a good idea to try something different. Any suggestions? I could try a wheat beer (i.e. Hacker-Pschorr), or a pilsner (i.e. Beck's)...perhaps I'll push it to the limit and go for a nice Imperial Stout (i.e. Guinness)! Any suggestions? What should I brew next?

Bah! Stupid drivers!

2008-01-28T19:59:00.000-06:00

It's 8:00pm, and I am sitting on the 5:45 BNSF Metra train, awaiting its arrival into the Route 59 train station. Notice the time differential? Normally, this train gets me into Aurora in 40 minutes flat, but tonight, I've been sitting on this train for nearly two hours, and I'm no closer to my home than I was 90 minutes ago.

Evidently, an earlier train struck a car, and now, every train behind it (mine included) is forced to wait while they clear away the wreckage. And, on top of that, the accident knocked out all the signals between Hinsdale and Aurora, so even if we did start moving right now, we'd be stopping at every crossing all the way home. Now, I know I should be compassionate for the people who were undoubtedly involved in a horrific collision, but I'm having a hard time with that. What very likely happened was, someone pushed the nose of their car too far and it got clipped by the train. Due to the impatience of one person, some 2000 people are forced to be patient.

I've been patient. But now, my laptop battery is running low, I've watched all the episodes of "Robot Chicken" on my computer, and I've played 26 straight games of "MarioKart 64." I'm bored, tired, hungry, and frustrated. Compassion will come later, but only after I get home, get changed, and get a drink.

A hug and kiss from my wife would really help, too.

Talk to you later, folks! I'm going home. Maybe.

Black Cherry Ale!!

2008-01-28T07:08:00.000-06:00

I've been talking all about this one for a while, haven't I? Well, yesterday afternoon, I managed to brew up five gallons of Black Cherry Ale! This time, I decided to document the process somewhat, and my lovely wife was able to take a few pictures. I should preface this by stating that I played with the recipe a bit this time around. I used a different type of cherry juice and hops and chose not to add a couple other ingredients. I did, however, venture into the world of Irish Moss. For those of you who don't know what this is, it's a type of seaweed which helps to clarify the finished brew. I hope it works, because once I re-hydrated the stuff in some hot water prior to pouring it into the brewpot, it began to emit a terrible smell...like rancid beach water...nasty. Still, the brew didn't smell like it at all, so I'm not too worried. Just be aware of this, should you ever choose to use this stuff. Anyway, let's press on, shall we?

This was my first experience brewing outdoors. There's so much snow on the ground, I didn't feel like hauling my grill to the garage, and given the temperature outside wasn't all that bad, I decided to brave it. I pulled on my boots, carried all the necessary elements to the backyard, and dumped everything on my glorious Weber grill (the side burner makes things so easy!). I fired up the burner, got the water boiling, and started on the marvelous expedition in search of good beer (having failed miserably to find anything even slightly resembling good beer from domestic brewers). Are you listening, Anheuser-Busch? Stop bottling that watery swill, or rename it! It's definitely not beer. Anyway, my recipe was actually a modified Pale Ale with about three quarts of cherry juice added at the end, just to put things in perspective, for those readers who happen to brew.

Not a very interesting photo, I'll admit...the temp outside started dropping shortly after I began the process (Murphy's Law strikes again), and the steam from the kettle obscured my vision of the pot's contents for most of the rest of the hour. I took this photo after adding the extract, bittering hops, irish moss, and finishing hops, so it's near the end of the boil, right before I dumped in the three quarts of cherry juice. So, even though the photo was taken late in the process, and even though you can't see a whole heck of a lot, just think of it as my homage to Bill Shakespeare (Double, double, toil, and trouble...propane burn and brewpot bubble...or something like that).

Ah, the brewery! Not much to look at, I'll admit, but I'm proud of it. You can see the finished wort, happily fermenting away in the far left carboy (not to mention my batch of scotch ale in the secondary fermenter next to it. In addition, as I mentioned in a previous post, my newly-rebuild workbench, complete with beer fridge. Soon, it will be filled with bottles, but at the moment, it's empty. The main reason for this is that I have yet to plug it in...in fact, there's no outlet in which to plug it in. Hence, my next project. First, build workbench. Second, install beer fridge. Third, run electricity. Finally, share and enjoy.

Here's a close-up of the carboys. Check out the sediment in the primary -- that's a LOT of post-boil crud in there! And, believe it or not, I left a lot of it in the brewpot, too! Hard to believe, huh?! Still, I'm not concerned - it'll all settle out in a week or so. In fact, I looked this morning, and only a half-inch of the stuff remained on the bottom, thanks to the yeast -- there's a lot of bubbling and frothing going on!! Quite an interesting sight, I'll admit.

And, finally, the brewery with a shot of yours truly! Nifty, huh? Given all the work that's gone into this little hobby already, Emily thought she'd take a picture of me amidst the setup. So, that's it...German Oktoberfest in bottles, Scotch Ale in the secondary fermenter, Black Cherry Ale in the primary...and on deck? Well, I'm not sure yet...but I'll let you know.

Scotch Ale: Day 6

2008-01-23T07:05:00.000-06:00

Ah, it's heartwarming to tiptoe downstairs early in the morning and listen to a bubbling fermenter full of beer. For the non-brewers in the audience, I can only liken it to owning a pet (or, for the younger readers, playing "The Sims" or owning a Tamagotchi) -- you just can't help yourself from checking to see how things are moving along. It's a good thing I don't own a webcam, or I'd be mounting it next to my carboy so I could view the fermentation progress from the office. ;)

Anyway, today marks Day Six in the progress of my batch of Scotch Ale. Not a lot to report, other than the yeast cells are dying off steadily, meaning they have nearly consumed all of the sugars in the jug, and will soon shuffle off this mortal coil. Ah, little yeast cells...we hardly knew ye. But don't despair, loyal readers -- they'll be back! A fair number will survive to carbonate the bottles, creating that beautiful, frothy head adorning the top of my pint glasses.

Anyway, I'm proud to state that I spent MLK day realizing my dream of building a new workbench for my little hobby. Big dream, I know. The old one was a piece of junk (not surprising, given it was built by the previous owners of the house), and by rebuilding it, I was able to improve the construction, enlarge it, and even incorporate my little fridge from my college days. Thus, I not only have a desk to use when taking notes or measuring ingredients, I have plenty of space for carboys, buckets, and all the other equipment, aaaaaand I have a nice little place to store the cold ones! Hurrah!

I'll take some photos tonight and post them tomorrow...then you'll have the full effect.

I even engineered a "poor man's carboy cover" -- Em has offered to sew me a good cover (as light has a detrimental effect on fermenting beer), but in the interim, I'm using the box the carboy came in. You can see the Dutchman in me coming through, can't you? Oh, and Em had a great suggestion yesterday for the carboy cover -- she said she'd make it to look like that classic Marilyn Monroe shot where she's standing over the air grate holding her dress down. The caption: "No peeking!"

Gotta love that. Have I mentioned how much I love my wife?! She's the greatest!

The carboy's full again!

2008-01-22T10:25:00.000-06:00

Good morning, readers! I'm pleased to announce that my carboy (a big ol' glass jug like the one show at left, for the uninitiated) is once again full of rapidly fermenting beer. And, boy, it's fermenting pretty powerfully!

As I mentioned in my earlier post, this weekend I invited a bunch of friends over to the house to join me in a brewing party. Once the day got into full swing, there were seven guys, two brewpots, and about two dozen taquitos (thanks, Emily!). My friend, Piet, decided to join me in the fun and cook up a batch of weizenbier (wheat beer), while I toyed with a recipe for Scotch Ale. Apart from the normal ingredients, I added a pound of British crystal malt (a specialty grain) and a quarter ounce of star anise (a spice used to flavor black licorice, among other things). Time will tell whether these additions prove helpful to the overall experience. Anyway, the brewing went well, despite the cold weather. What was initially a frigid garage soon became a toasty room smelling strongly of malt and grain. Exquisite.

Once the brewing was complete, I filled my carboy and added the yeast, and those little organisms began to reproduce faster than bunnies on viagra! The wort (unfermented beer, FYI) was bubbling and churning until this morning, when it finally slowed a bit. I anticipate the main activity should finish up around the end of this week, when I'll transfer it to a secondary fermenter in order to clarify the brew for another week. Meanwhile, I'm going to try out the recipe for black cherry ale, as promised earlier. I would have done that one this time around, but since it takes around 2 months to ferment, I had to have something on deck before kicking that one off. Otherwise, I'd go into beer withdrawal!

For anyone desiring to start this marvelous hobby, I strongly suggest it. And, if my opinion isn't enough, you can talk to my wife - not only did she present me with all the equipment, she speaks very highly of my demeanor since starting to brew...or maybe she's just amused by the fact that I'm actually excited when she asks to visit the spice shop. Either way, I'm happy.

Ahhhhhh....beer!

2008-01-14T13:31:00.000-06:00

Alright. I admit it. I buckled and opened one of my beers before the recommended two-week aging period was complete. I made it about a week, and then decided that I had waited long enough. I popped the thing open, tipped it into a pint glass, and witnessed the awe and wonder of the first pour of my very own beer.

It was magnificent. Perhaps I'm biased, given that I brewed the beer in the first place, and I'd probably think it looked awesome even if it glopped out of the bottle like month-old cottage cheese. But I don't care. It's my beer, and I can extol its virtues if I want to. So there.

Upon tasting the beer, I must say two things:
1. I'm impressed. I half-expected my first batch to suck, but this wasn't bad at all! It may not hold its own against the microbrews or imports, but it's tons better than the domestic swill masquerading as beer in this country.
2. The two-week aging process is pretty important. It's not that the beer tasted bad (quite the contrary), it just needed a little more carbonation, a problem which I'm certain will be rectified by an additional week's wait.

This weekend will be the real test. I'm having some friends over to the house on Saturday afternoon to sample the beer and assist me in brewing the second batch (a nifty Scotch Ale that I thought sounded pretty tasty). I hope they like the beer, but more importantly, I hope some other guys might get interested in this little hobby...I'm anxious to start a little suburban brewing club and trade recipes with people. To my readers: if you've got any exceptional beer recipes, please send 'em my way...the brewery is in full swing, now, and I'm taking orders!

I'll write again after the beer tasting and let you know the verdict.

The Tinman's New Hobby!!

2008-01-07T15:32:00.000-06:00

Hi, folks...sorry for the delay in completing my top ten worst cartoons of all time (Rubik the Amazing Cube is next...don't miss it), but I figured that, after a month-long sabbatical, another few days wouldn't hurt. Besides, today's blog is worth the wait. I come bearing fantastic news!

But first, a minor cynicism: Jessica Simpson just released a new movie! It was supposed to go straight to DVD, but studio execs decided to offer a limited release to a handful of theaters in Texas. The weekend gross from this endeavor: $400. That's right, folks -- FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS! I could have made more money by posting my high school production of the Wizard of Oz on YouTube! And yeah, I was the Tinman in that production, for those who may be wondering.

Now, then...on to the news. Thanks to my wonderful wife, I am now a brewer! Em bought me the gift of all gifts this Christmas - all the equipment needed to brew my own beer, including a couple books to learn the basics and the ingredients for the first batch! A week ago, I boiled the grain and malt extract, added some hops and yeast, and ended up with five gallons of German Oktoberfest beer fermenting in my basement. This past Saturday, I was able to bottle my newly-crafted brew, filling just over 40 bottles! Of course, I now need to wait for another couple weeks while the beer carbonates and ages, but come January 18, I'll crack open a longneck and see whether or not I should quit my day job. ;)

At this point I should state for the record that I have already tried the beer. My friend, Piet (who was present for the bottling), asked to sample a bit of the not-yet-finished brew, and told me it was quite good. On his prompting, I tried it as well, and I must say, it was very tasty. It was also warm and flat, which is why I only tasted a little, but to borrow Piet's words, "You can taste the potential!" Good things are on the horizon.

For those who might be interested in starting up this hobby, let me just say this - if you can boil water, you can brew beer! Really. It's just that easy. Plus, since there's absolutely zero chance of creating anything with enough alcohol to blind yourself, it's completely safe! The worst thing that could happen is, you might end up with a batch of bad beer, costing you around $30-$40. Personally, I think that's a risk worth taking. Besides, I could take up golf and pay that much in monthly green fees and cart rentals, and at the end of the month, I'd have nothing at all. At least with brewing, there's a good chance I'll have some great beer to show for it. True, my first batch might suck, but I don't care...I'm already thinking of getting another batch of empty bottles so I can start of my next project: five gallons of black cherry ale....mmmmmm. :)

Worst Cartoons - Number 5

2007-11-20T16:20:00.000-06:00

Number 5: Tom and Jerry

Ugh. You can't pay me enough money to sit in front of the TV and endure this crap for more than five minutes. That works well, because every stupid Tom and Jerry cartoon lasts just long enough to hold the attention of your average three-year-old. In other words, less than four minutes. The plot of this dumb show invariably revolves around the futile attempts of an idiot cat (Tom) to capture a tiny mouse (Jerry), something that the laziest housecat can easily accomplish, given enough time. Throughout the course of the series, Tom proves himself to be less intelligent than a houseplant, while Jerry showcases not only an array of weaponry so dizzying as to put Saddam Hussein into a state of catatonic shock, but also his complete and utter abilities in using those same weapons to torture the stupid cat for kicks.

Now, I'm certain that somewhere, someone will immediately disagree with my opinion in placing this cartoon in this list, and thinking it unconscionable, given the number of academy awards the show has won over its seventeen-year run. In response, let me just say that, one, this is my blog, and I can say whatever I darn well please, and two, academy awards count for jack. How many awards did that stupid Leonardo DiCraprio Titanic movie win? Yeah. I rest my case.

Now, back to Tom and Jerry, let's consider the primary fact at work - there's only one plot at work here. If it would take a thousand monkeys a thousand years to come up with the complete works of Shakespeare, I'm confident a handful of primates could crank out a Tom and Jerry episode inside of a week. There's no surprise here. Cat chases mouse. Mouse evades cat. Mouse crushes/maims/eviscerates/tortures/explodes etc. cat using knives/guns/falling safes/fire/clubs/spears/dynamite etc. The end. Wow...I was almost entertained for a full minute.

Any more of this dumb cartoon, and I'll find myself yearning for those insipid Family Circus comics where I get to follow the path of one of those pumpkin-headed kids while they take six hours to walk next door to borrow a cup of sugar. At least I know if I ever become suicidal, there's crud like Tom and Jerry...that alone would reinvigorate my desire to live. Not to mention rant.

Worst Cartoons - Number 6

2007-11-15T10:01:00.000-06:00

Number 6: Denver, The Last Dinosaur

Wow! Just when I think I've seen the worst cartoon in existence, I run across something that makes me doubt the intellect of TV executives everywhere. With that, I present the following bit of animated crap...Denver, The Last Dinosaur, a cartoon created to appeal to 1980s teenagers who will apparently watch anything as long as it has dinosaurs, surf lingo, BMX biking, and skateboards.

Here's the premise. A group of teens head to the natural history museum to research a project on dinosaurs, when, wonder of wonders, they get bored and decide to go outside to skateboard. As they mess around in the museum's backyard (which just so happens to be a tar pit), a couple bullies show up and goad one of the teens to jump across the tar pit on his bike. Like a tool, he agrees. As he soars through the air, he realizes all too late that he wouldn't be able to clear the pit if he had a rocket strapped to his back, and begins the slow-motion plummet straight down. However, rather than end up as worm food, the teen lands on a giant prehistoric dinosaur egg (which happened to go unnoticed by the museum staff, despite the fact that it's been lying in their backyard for the past 70 million years). The egg cracks open, and a fully-grown dinosaur emerges. The teens name him Denver, make him their best friend, and take him home, trying to keep him a secret from the authorities (an exercise that is made easier, as their parents are completely oblivious to the presence of said creature, given the fact that they have a lot of other "strange" pets...you know, like fish, or a cat).

This would SO never happen to me. If I were the one to stumble upon an eons-old dinosaur egg, I sure as heck wouldn't crack the dang thing open and anticipate the arrival of my new best friend. Knowing MY luck, the egg would break apart and unleash a reptilian horror intent on inflicting flaming death on all earthly life, and the first thing (translation: snack) he would find as he clawed his way out of his ovoid home would be me...and any other idiotic chums who were unfortunate enough to accompany me on my little tour of all things old and deadly.

This is all too typical of 1980s cartoons. Take something that would otherwise be insanely dangerous and make it completely benign and friendly. Then, take a person who, in the real world, could be easily vanquished by Barney Fife and make him all but immortal. Then, add in a situation that wouldn't warrant the attention of a mall security guard and make it seem like the end of the world. Suddenly, a dinosaur becomes as docile as a goldfish, a concert promoter takes on all the redeeming qualities of Hitler, and the worst thing that could possibly happen is the loss of the first place trophy in the local suburban talent show.

I'd love to see an episode of this cartoon where Denver goes on a rampage and destroys the local Dairy Queen, then gets tazered and hauled away by the Feds, all while the teens attempt to convince them that Denver is actually their cousin from Barbados with a glandular disorder. The episode could even end with the teens spending the rest of their lives in prison for obstruction of justice. Now THAT would be a great cartoon. Unfortunately, until that plot line comes along, we have to deal with useless crud like Denver.

Worst Cartoons - Number 7

2007-11-14T08:52:00.000-06:00

Number 7: Bigfoot and the Muscle Machines

Oh, yeah!!! Monster trucks! Good guys! Bad guys! Characters whose names sound like rejects from circa 1970s low-budget adult films! What better vehicle (pun intended, obviously) for a Saturday morning funfest than this? Strap in, folks...it gets better.

The show centers around the evil Mr. Big (aka Adrian Ravenscroft), who's a rich old geezer who enlists the aid of a bunch of motorcycle-riding, thunder-domed punks as he searches for the elusive Fountain of Youth. Unfortunately, the map to said fountain is in the hands of the good guys, all of whom happen to ride around in monster trucks. Sounds pretty at first glance, but then the idiocy begins to mount.

First, the characters. I'll leave Mr. Big alone for the time being and focus on the good guys. There are two red-haired twin sisters named Red and Redder (wonder who the three-year-old was who came up with THAT brilliant bit), then you have the twins' friend Close McCall. Oh, boy -- the names just keep getting better and better. Ready for the climax? Here we go...the leader (and driver of Bigfoot) is a guy named Yank Justice. Remember my earlier comment about character names? Yeah. Yank Justice. I've seen better names in early cold war propaganda films. Yank Justice sounds like a character that got rejected once Hasbro came up with G.I. Joe.

Second, the map. The good guys have it. The bad guys don't. Hmmm...while I'm well aware that my own sense of direction is so woefully abysmal so as to cause me to get lost within a parking lot, I can safely state that I am able to read a map. And, if someone handed me a map to the Fountain of Youth, I'm pretty certain that it wouldn't take me long to rent a truck and a bunch of empty bottles and drain the place dry. Why in the world couldn't the good guys do the same? This is probably the reason why this particular show only lasted 9 episodes.

Third, the vehicles. Monster trucks. Racing against motorcycles. Ever seen a monster truck rally? I have, and I think I saw one of the trucks get left in the dust by an overweight guy riding a rascal scooter. They're not built for speed, maneuverability, or efficiency. They're built to crush cars and entertain rednecks. Past that, they're pretty much useless. Much like the creators of this cartoon.

Oh, and if you happen to be keeping score, Bigfoot and the Muscle Machines hasn't even been released on DVD yet. That should give you some idea of the level of idiocy we're talking about here.

Worst Cartoons - Number 8

2007-11-13T08:32:00.000-06:00

Number 8: Captain N: The Game Master

Oh, this one is a humdinger! Fresh from the video game craze of the 1980s, an era which brought us the 8-bit Nintendo game system (complete with Super Mario Bros., Duck Hunt, and The Legend of Zelda), TV execs decided that there was money to be gathered. Enter the comic claptrap of Captain N: The Game Master.

The premise of the show was simple. A lonely teenager, his brain addled by hours of gameplay, is sucked into his television to find himself in a faraway world inhabited by people who look an awful lot like the characters in his video games. They inform him that he has been chosen to save their tiny little world from the evil Mother Brain (the boss from the Metroid game series, for your info). Armed with his Nintendo gamepad and zapper pistol, Captain N proceeds to fight alongside his favorite video game characters, in an effort to save the world.

Ah, yes...every video gamer's dream...to be transported to a world where their skills, while utterly useless on planet Earth, are in dire need. And, as if that's not enough, the prize in this particular case (other than the continued safety and security of Videoland) are the affections of the beautiful Princess Lana (that's her on the right). Despite the fact that most vido gamers of this era lacked the social skills to successfully ask a girl for directions to the restroom, somehow "Captain N", clad in his letter jacket (the show never mentions how he came by this jacket, given the fact that all he did in the real world is play video games all day) is able to make the beautiful princess swoon with delight.

Yeeeeeaaaahh...no wonder this show had such a strong viewership among pre-teen boys. I can hear the thought processes now...Dude! I finally found a hot chick who thinks my gaming skills rock and is willing to forego a pep rally to sit in my parent's basement and watch me play Megaman!! And she even thinks I'm studly!!

Keep dreamin' there, game boy. The future's not THAT bright. You've got a lot of lonely nights ahead of you...unless you consider Princess Toadstool your steady girlfriend, in which case you'll have a little company. Namely, your psychiatrist.

Worst Cartoons - continued

2007-11-09T08:25:00.000-06:00

Number 9: The Get Along Gang
Wow. Can't get more blatant than that one! It's almost as if the mothers of the world banded together after winning the war on drugs and violence and turned their collective gaze on schoolyard children who don't play well together. Take THAT, human nature!!

In this saccharin-laced barf-a-rama, a small throng of misfit animals led by Montgomery Moose, attempt to improve their neighborhood by doing good deeds. They pick up trash, teach people to share, and, every so often (when one of their animators skips his ADHD medication), get into a little mischief. Oh, and fight bullies, too. Or, more specifically, fight two bullies, namely, Catchem and Leeland, the slow-witted ne'er-do-wells that evidently don't have quite the rosy outlook on life espoused by the members of the Get Along Gang.

I despise this cartoon because it flies in the face of the very reason I watched cartoons as a kid - I wanted to escape! I wanted to battle robots and drive fast cars and rescue damsels in distress and do cool stuff like that. I didn't want to be lectured by preachy forest critters on the virtues of being healthy, eating my vegetables, and going to bed on time. If I wanted to endure that for twenty minutes straight, I would have broken a window and waited for the inevitable lecture from Mom and Dad.

Yeah, yeah -- I know some kids didn't have the happy nuclear family that I did, and I'm well aware that the target demographic of this show was probably not someone like me, but that's entirely beside the point. The point is, when overbearing, politically-minded parents fight to give their kids something educational AND entertaining, it always ends up looking a lot like this honey-dripped claptrap. And I'm sick of it. I hate to break it to these folks, but sometimes, it's okay for kids to have a Twinkie. Sometimes it's okay for kids to watch TV. And, dare I say it, sometimes it's okay for certain parents to lay off the "Let's all be friends" brand of crack pipe and realize that their kids aren't going to like everybody in the world, no matter what stupid Saturday morning show they're forced to take in.

So there. Myeahhhh! And no give-backs!!

Worst Cartoons of All Time!!!

2007-11-07T10:30:00.000-06:00

I admit it. I watch cartoons. Granted, with Family Guy, The Simpsons, American Dad, South Park, King of the Hill, and American Idol gracing the airwaves, that's more common than ever.

What do you mean, American Idol's real?! No way!! What about the three evil, coke-sucking trolls in the peanut gallery? Who's detached from reality NOW??

Anyway, for all those readers who didn't grow up in the 80s, cartoons were a mainstay of Saturday morning programming schedules back then. No matter what backwater burg in which you laid your head, you could be certain to find some sort of animation breaking through the static on Saturdays. Nowadays...not so much. But that's not to say that all the cartoons were home runs. Some were less than stellar, and some were, well, abysmal! To that end, I'm starting a list of the worst cartoons of all time. Feel free to join in the fight.

Number 10: Rambo: The Force of Freedom
We'll start with a good one. And, let me tell you - this is the alpha male of poorly-thought-out animation.

Problem number 1 was the title character. While Rambo of the movies was a greased-up psychotic nutjob with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder who got suckered into fighting an enemy army all by his lonesome (and, sometimes, with a wisecracking little punk tagging along for the ride), Rambo of the cartoon world was an assertive, well-adjusted, charismatic leader whose quick thinking always favored the non-violent alternative. Do I need to go into detail on this one?? Rambo's supposed to kill people!! Violently!! With guns and knives and explosives...and sometimes rope, glass, tree branches, rocks, handfuls of dirt, origami cranes, talcum powder, Q-tips...you get the idea. He's Rambo!! He's supposed to be a trained killer! This re-characterization made no sense at all.

Problem number 2 was the ensemble cast. As previously mentioned, Rambo works alone (more or less). Except in the cartoon world, in which he leads a multicultural bunch of do-gooders, each of whom has, evidently, only one skill. Keeping all these guys in the same unit was an absolute must, given their sheer ineptitude for any other position in life (except maybe as a member of Congress). It sure was a good thing they all stayed alive amidst all the firefights, because if even one of them had the misfortune to get popped, Rambo and his buddies would be finished.

Problem number 3 were the enemies. Just like in every war-based cartoon, there was but one faceless, monolithic enemy force. With a cool name. Led by evil guys with cool names. In this, the cartoon does not disappoint. Allow me to present Rambo's arch-nemesis: the evil forces of "S.A.V.A.G.E.", led by none other than General Warhawk and his trusty minion, Sergeant Havoc. This kind of thing really begs the question of the whole "nature vs. nurture" argument -- can you really expect anyone with a name like Havoc to choose a non-evil profession? Can one imagine a "Pastor Havoc" or "Forest Ranger Havoc" or perhaps even "Mr. Havoc, the Home Economics Instructor." Not so much...evil names = evil geniuses. And a stupid cartoon to boot.

There you have it. Number nine on the list arrives tomorrow. Stay tuned!

Stop it! You're killing me!!

2007-10-30T14:44:00.000-05:00

It's been one heck of a morning. I had an appointment with my dentist, my wife's car wouldn't start, and I got ticketed for speeding. Normally, I'd be firing off a tirade so acidic as to make you want to wash it down with vinegar, just to cleanse the palate. However, after checking the news feeds, I happened upon a story so pathetic, so banal, so inconceivably audacious, that I felt I just had to comment on it.

I present to you the latest from good ol' Britney...it appears that she is steamed that her ex-hubby, K-Fed, has not been forced by the courts to undergo the same random drug tests as she has. And, to toss one additional jolly rancher in your pre-Halloween candy bags, she's even claiming that the courts have been more sympathetic toward Federline.

Hmm...while I generally make it a moral imperative to tear down K-Fed as much as I can, Brit's argument may have merit. Let's take a closer look, shall we? Has Kevin been photographed driving with his infant son sitting unrestrained in his lap, mere inches from the airbag? No. Alright...has he attacked a taxi with an umbrella, shortly after shaving himself bald? No. Okay, then...has he ignored a string of court-imposed demands and skipped mandatory drug tests, resulting in the loss of custody of his sons? No.

Want me to continue? No? Are you sure? I can keep this up for hours, you know. Alright, then...you've got the picture. Are the courts more sympathetic toward K-Fed? You bet they are. Should they be? You bet they should. After all, he had the misfortune to hook up with Brit...at this point, the only ones I'm more sympathetic toward than K-Fed are the two children involved. Believe me, the emotional trauma that'll be dredged up years from now on psychiatrists' couches will be enough to power a small city.

The moral of the story, in case Brit's reading: When you're a self-obsessed, spotlight-hogging, no-talent twit, and you turn your life into a flaming spiral of idiocy in a futile attempt to retain a fan base who outgrew you years ago, don't be surprised when the intelligent masses offer more sympathy to one of your backup dancers. Now go back to the sticks and leave us alone. We're trying to evolve, and you're getting in the way.

They must've read my blog!!

2007-10-29T08:26:00.000-05:00

Kudos to the 401c(3) organizations of the world!! In case you didn't catch that, it's the legal designation for a non-profit company. I'm in a jovial mood this morning, and I thought I'd share. Not only did Boston clinch its second world series title in four years (bye, bye curse!!), but Paris Hilton's self-aggrandizing little junket to Rwanda has been postponed. Hopefully forever.

You may be asking why. Well, remember my earlier post about this idiotic little boondoggle? I claimed that the only reason she would head to Rwanda was so she could bring her camera crew and bring awareness to the suffering. Take note - she's not helping to ease the suffering...just show people how much it sucks.

According to a source within the Playing for Good organization, the trip was to be filmed in hopes of selling it as part of a reality show called "The Philanthropist." Now, the organization states that the aforementioned source has been canned, and now claims that they never planned to tape Hilton's trip in order to sell a reality TV show. Hmmm...getting a bit of a "CYA" vibe here...I think the initial press on this little venture wasn't quite as positive as they initially thought.

Can it be that Paris is not as universally beloved as she thinks she is? Unthinkable!!

The charity said on Thursday the trip was being postponed due to what it called a "restructuring" in its organization. Yeah. Good one. We all know what that means. Whenever a company "restructures" or "reorganizes", that's code for "Wow, did we ever botch things good! But that's not due to our management....oh, no...we'll just move some reporting lines around and make it all better."

Trust me on this one -- I used to work for a company that did this once every two years. I'll give you a hint...its name rhymes perfectly with "British Petroleum."

Flight delays, and MORE flight delays....

2007-10-22T10:08:00.000-05:00

Last week was certainly the week for catching up with old friends and making new ones!

I had a short business trip to New York last week, which turned out to be longer than I initially anticipated (big surprise, there). I flew out on Wednesday morning, and was supposed to return to Chicago on Thursday evening around 10. Upon hitting LaGuardia around 7pm, however, I ran into a bunch of other people from the Chicago Tribune (where I had interviewed prior to getting my job with Google) who were also heading to Chicago. After we chatted for a while, I thought, "Cool! This flight might rock, after all!"

Then my new friends informed me that their flight was supposed to leave three hours earlier. Grrrr. So much for the prospects of an enjoyable flight. Casting a glance to the departure boards, I found that my flight, too, was delayed.

I politely excused myself and proceeded to the nearest establishment to get acquainted with my old pal, Samuel Adams. We hung out several hours, before I got a text message on my blackberry. It was from an old BP friend of mine (who happened to be at the same business conference I had attended that day). As she held platinum status with American Airlines, I decided to ditch Sammy and go hang out with her in the Admirals Club. That was much, MUCH nicer. Plus, I became reacquainted with another old friend, Stella Artois. That was nice, too.

Well, needless to say, my flight continued to be delayed. Several times. All evening. Evidently, there was a lot of cloud cover around Chicago, forcing flights from around the country to sit around and wait before they could head to the Windy City. When we were finally allowed to board (at around 12:45), the gate agent told us that plane's doors would need to be closed and latched in eleven minutes, or we would need to deplane and await a whole new flight crew. Then she asked us to all calmly board the plane. Yeah. Right. Good luck with that one.

Once the doors opened, we all rushed forward in a mad dash, much like concertgoers sprinting for exits following a Celine Dion performance. I'm thankful to say the doors were closed within a record 7 minutes, and we took off shortly thereafter. I arrived home at around 2:30 Friday morning.

Then I got up four hours later and went to work.

Stupid Chicago weather!

Would you buy wine from these guys??

2007-10-11T13:49:00.001-05:00

Yeek. Meet Steve Beland and Adam Strouf of the Bel-Aire Estates Winery near St. Ansgar, Iowa. In reading the local newspaper from my hometown of Osage (located about 10 miles from St. Ansgar), I happened across an article about a newly-opened winery in the area. You'd think that this would be a good thing, but given the Deliverance-esque appearance of these two, you'd be dead wrong. It comes as no surprise that the doors in front of which they are standing have no windows...I'd bet that the inside has all the warmth and ambiance of a unventilated slaughterhouse in the middle of August.

Now, for those of you who think that a background in grape growing is somewhat of a prerequisite to open a winery, I offer the yahoos above as evidence to the contrary. As noted in the aforementioned article, the location of the vineyard used to be a drive-in theater back in the 60s, with a capacity of around 150 cars and - get this - several small planes, whose pilots would, on occasion, land in a nearby field, taxi around to face the screen, grab a speaker and a tub of popcorn, and watch the flick. True story.

Much has changed since the mid-70s, when a tornado blew away half of the movie screen. The Beland family purchased the place, stored root stock in the old snack bar and used the projector room to butcher deer. Then they planted apple trees and sold jelly before finally deciding to appeal to the more refined tastes of the local population and planted a vineyard. Yeah...anybody want to place a bet on how long that's going to last? This is an area where most people drink three-dollar-per-bottle Charles Shaw wine (known more commonly as "Three-Buck Chuck").

This is what I hate about Iowa. The place is already on the verge of hickdom (for comparison, Alabama is deep in the midst of hickdom), but then guys like this go and open a winery...and don't even clean up for the photo op! Seriously - the freak on the left looks like he's about to go "huntin'" and the other one looks like a bouncer at the local under-18 skating rink. Do they even realize that the product they're planning to sell is supposed to be more sophisticated (or, in their case, sophisti-ma-cated)? Based on this photo, the classiest wine these guys ever drank was either Boone's Farm or Thunderbird.

I suppose I should save my breath...I'll have plenty more to rant about once I get my hands on the winery's latest vintage. My bet is, they'll probably opt to save money on the label and wrap the bottle in a girlie mudflap instead.

There's a lot that I love about Iowa...but hicks making wine isn't one of them.

Curse the RIAA!!

2007-10-11T10:28:00.000-05:00

Kudos to the Recording Industry of America! They've finally done what they've been threatening to do for the past decade - they've successfully won a lawsuit against a music-loving internet user who's been illegally downloading music from one of the myriad filesharing sites that pepper the internet like Starbucks franchises in downtown Seattle.

The perpetrator in this case: a single American Indian mother of two, living in Duluth, Minnesota, with a household income of $36,000 a year. Truly, a danger to society. I know I'll sleep more soundly tonight, knowing that the cyberstreets are once again safe from wretched scum like her. I sigh with relief as I ponder the reality that, now that justice has been done, I need only worry about attacks from, well, those slimy executives of the RIAA itself.

Let's clear the air on this one, shall we? The RIAA is a soulless cadre of money-hungry automotons whose collective IQ, if measured, wouldn't exceed the waist size of your average supermodel. They've chosen to maintain the status quo, even when the environment changes around them. And, as their foes rise up in ever-increasing numbers, their time's almost up.

There's one reason that the RIAA is striking out against the file-sharing community. Money. Over the course of the past 40 years, the recording industry (working with their army of robotic lawyers) have seen to it that nearly every dime from the sale of a given CD falls directly into their gaping pockets - a CD which, I might add, costs less than five bucks to produce and market. Already, the music lovers have realized this, and begun to share music among themselves. Artists, too, have realized they can easily cut out the middleman and bring music directly to the people via the internet. It won't be long before tangible media like CDs go the way of the dodo, leaving the RIAA holding a very empty cash box.

No more massive profits. No more power. And no more ability to wave a contract in front of a struggling artist and turn them into a frantic marionette, with the RIAA holding the strings.

So, congratulations to you, the devils of the RIAA! Good for you! Glad to see that justice prevailed! And in the same breath, I curse the ground upon which you walk, and look to the day when your dinosaur-like existence is shadowed by the appearance of an oncoming comet. The irony is, as more and more music remains solely in the digital realm, there's not even much chance that your remains will end up as CD cases. The evolution clock is ticking, boys, and you're several decades too late.

Back from the reunion!!

2007-10-01T13:37:00.001-05:00

I'm going to digress from my prepared rant this afternoon, in order to give my report on my 10-year college reunion, which took place this weekend.

In brief, it was awesome! I rarely get back to Grand Rapids, and it's wonderful when my trip back to campus coincides with an opportunity to see so many friends. I found out about two upcoming weddings, numerous upcoming children, and more news about jobs and houses and families than I can relate. Nonetheless, there was one small story that I'd like to recount.

Fourteen years ago, I was a freshman at Calvin, and my good friend, Andrew Schuurmann, was my roommate. We had a great time during our first year, but when it drew to a close, we decided to leave something behind. Our suitemates, Dave and Vince, informed us that, in the past, some students chose to take the bathroom mirror off the wall and sign their names, leaving a record of their time there. This sounded like a good idea, so we took similar action, adding our names to those already listed, before replacing the mirror on the wall and departing.

Over the years, I've wondered whether or not our scribblings had endured. Although I didn't like to admit it, Calvin had to have repainted the bathrooms at least once in fourteen years, and it was quite likely that our names had been erased. Well, this weekend, I found an answer to my question.

Not only had our names remained, but more had been added to it. The wall behind the mirror had become a collection of drawings, names, quotes, and (more recently) favorite websites. Given that the names are dated back to 1990, the free space behind the mirror is running out, but there's still room. And I'm certain there will be more names added. Maybe at my twentieth reunion, we'll get to see our names again. Even if not, I was pleased to see them there.

Good times....good times!

Stupid Causeheads!

2007-09-27T08:47:00.000-05:00

Ugh. On second thought, make that a double ugh. Our favorite useless socialite, Paris Hilton, has decided that, following her brief stint in the stony lonesome, she's going to make good on her promise to "turn her life around." To that end, she's going to visit Rwanda.

Say it with me - stupid, stupid, STUPID!! Just to set the stage, here's the level of stupidity we're dealing with -- take 100 of the dumbest people you've ever met, hire a bunch of scientists to recombine their DNA, using only the dumbest genes from each one, and clone a super-dumb person. Then, as soon as he drools his way though the glass of the cloning tank, hit him over the head a couple times with a wrench. Then sit him in front of daytime TV until his IQ drops another twenty points, and you'll have a person who's almost (though not quite) as dumb as Paris Hilton.

According to the camera-lens concubine, "I feel like if I go, it will bring more attention to what people can do to help." Did you catch that? She's going to Rwanda so people will know how they can help. Word to the witless, Paris - the balance in your checking account is higher than the entire GDP of Rwanda! Ever consider setting aside the private jet, designer clothes, and clubbing schedule, and instead unload a few thou to buy food for the people there? There's a million starving people in Rwanda! What the heck is your presence going to do to improve the situation? And that's not all -- she's making a point to go after she finishes filming her movie in November.

At least she's following up one pointless sham with another.

Paris is a textbook example of a causehead -- someone who supports a cause, but has no real understanding of it, nor feels any real attachment to it. You know why Paris chose to go to Rwanda? Because it's trendy, it's not life-threatening, and no other celebrities are pushing it as a cause -- and she's not going to go anyplace where her presence might be upstaged by someone else. If she really believed in the cause, she spend a ton of money on food, clothing, shelter, and medical supplies and then go there to oversee the distribution. But let's face it, without her Prada bag, Gucci earrings, and Dior dress, she's nothing more than a helium balloon in a blonde wig.

Bon voyage, Paris! Good luck shmoozing the Rwandans! Remember - if you find yourself surrounded by hoards of drooling people, don't stand there smirking like an idiot...they've probably just mistaken you for a giant pot-sticker.

Comcast Jerks!

2007-09-24T15:25:00.000-05:00

You know, I'm beginning to think that it's not just the brain-dead cabbages working for the Dish Network who are out to get me. Now my ire is focused on their closest substitute...Comcast.

After becoming thoroughly disgusted with the Dish and it's stupid good-for-nothing sleep mode, I called up Comcast and had cable installed. The cable guy came out and hooked up the first TV (spending about twenty minutes getting the picture nice and clear) before heading upstairs to hook up the second TV. This time, his efforts amounted to hooking one end of a coax cable to the wall, while I hooked up the other end to the TV. Once that herculean effort was completed, we headed downstairs, where he proceeded to fill out the paperwork. He asked about the third TV, but I told him not to bother...I figured I was perfectly able to screw in an RG-6 connector to the back of a television set. His pseudo-job complete, he left, and all was well.

Until the bill arrived, that is, including nearly 80 bucks worth of "one-time fees." I called Comcast to inquire, and they told me the charges covered the installation of my four TVs. I informed them I had only three TVs. They agreed to take $17 off the bill. Excellent. One down.

Then I asked them what was covered in the "installation" charge, considering the cable guy barely touched TV #2, and didn't even come near TV #3. Rather than say how awful that was, or lament the fact that the technician wasn't doing his job, the rep said there was nothing she could do, since I signed the installation order. I informed her that the cable guys left so fast, I never got a chance to sign the installation order. Silence. Then the rep rattled off a rationale that could only have come from a script.

Evidently, they get that question a lot...in fact, they have a specific prompt for callers with questions about their first bill.

Well, in the end, the best I got was the $17 off the bill. The moral of the story is this, folks. If ever you need to enlist the aid of Comcast, tell them you only need ONE TV hooked up, and demand to know at every point what a given action is going to cost you. If you fail to do this, they will charge you a ton of money for some lazy mouth-breather to slime his way around your house and do nothing at all involved in the installation of your broadcasting. And don't believe any of this "full disclosure" garbage. It's completely in their best interest to hide the $17 per TV charge until it's too late to do anything. You know it, and so do I.

Oh, well. At least I got a nifty consolation prize.

Five years ago, we moved into our house in Wheaton, and found that the cable had not been turned off. We called Comcast to have it terminated, which they claimed would be completed within 2-3 days. We ended up getting free cable for five years.

Gotta love schadenfreude!

Stupid Telemarketers!

2007-09-21T10:25:00.000-05:00

I hate telemarketers. I hate being harassed at inopportune times (or, anytime, for that matter...I can't think of a single time when being harassed would be opportune). I hate being pitched stupid crap that I'll never buy in a million years. Like a subscription to DirecTV. Or a membership to the Police Athletic League. Or the latest impassioned (and pre-recorded) plea from Senator Glumph as he seeks to avoid true responsibility by getting re-elected.

Unless you're a friend or family member, I don't want to hear from you. Or have you stop by my house (see my wife's blog on solicitors for more on this topic).

Thus, I'd like to take a moment and praise the national Do Not Call Registry. I love it! It's great! The only way it could be improved is by expanding its coverage to include charities, market research, and the Senator Glumphs of the world. However, even if this never comes to pass, it's still great.

However, I should let you know that there is an expiration date. One's inclusion on the Do Not Call list expires every five years, so you'll need to visit www.donotcall.gov to sign up before the clock runs out. I did so this morning - my home number and both my wife's and my cell phone numbers are both protected until 2012. I suggest you do the same. Make those telemarketers get real jobs.

And, if you'd like more to do, let's start a campaign for a national "Do Not Visit" registry. Do to solicitors what we've done to telemarketers! Make the Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, magazine sellers, petition bearers, and all the other shiftless losers realize that they're better off buying their own crap and saving us the hassle of saying, "No, No, NO!!! Get off my lawn already!!!" over and over again.

Seriously. My throat is getting sore.

That's gotta be a first!!

2007-09-18T08:56:00.000-05:00

Hypothetical situation: let's say you're a teenage pop star. And, through a seemingly unending series of boneheaded blunders, you find your career spiraling down the toilet while more and more of your fans defect every day, turning from supporters to critics, as the news media lampoon your music, your lifestyle, your appearance, and anything else they can think of. And, just to complete the picture, let's say your name is, oh, I don't know...ummm...Britney. Got the mental picture? Okay.

My question is, what's the final nail in the coffin? At what point is utter ruin inescapable? When does the public, in one voice, knock on the proverbial fat lady's dressing room door and tell her she's on in five? I'll give you a hint...the final straw doesn't come when you marry a backup dancer, have two kids, get investigated for child endangerment, get divorced, or shave off all your hair in a fit of the crazies. In fact, even if your lawyer quits in the midst of your child custody batter, because she knows she's got a better shot defending the Nazis at Nuremberg. In fact, all those things might hurt your career, but they won't kill it.

No, the final exit on the highway of your career comes when your manager fires YOU.

After that point, you're on a one-way road to oblivion. And you'd better enjoy the ride, because pretty soon, you'll be doing trailer park gigs and state fair shows before an audience of spouse abusers, alcoholics, and assorted miscreants faster than you can say, "Hit Me Baby One More Time."

Am I joking? 'Fraid not. In a statement released Monday, top partners at The Firm management agency announced that they had "terminated our professional relationship with Britney Spears." They added, "We believe Britney is enormously talented... but current circumstances have prevented us from properly doing our job."

Sorry, Brit...time to drop the mic and head for the exit. At this point, you can be sure there won't be anyone in the audience to block your path.

Yeeeaaaahhhh! O.J.'s Going to Jail!!

2007-09-17T14:05:00.000-05:00

Alright. That's not true. But it will be soon, and we all know it.

Sorry, O.J. -- there's no silver lining to this cloud, no bloody glove for you to wriggle out of, and even Johnnie Cochrane isn't around to save your guilty butt (our favorite "Wookie Defense" ambulance chaser kicked the bucket back in 2005).

But I digress. Evidently, O.J. waltzed into the Palace Station Hotel-Casino last Thursday, accompanied by a gaggle of his mouth-breathing, gun-toting cronies, and proceeded to accuse a number of individuals of stealing his things. According to an audio recording from TMZ.com, Simpson shouted, "Don't let nobody out of this room," before turning to the person he believed took his things, and yelling, "Mother [expletive], you think you can steal my [expletive] and sell it?" Once he had everyone’s attention, a couple of O.J.’s thugs pulled out handguns and leveled them at the individuals in question.

Yeah. That’s the O.J. we all know and loathe – big and dumb. You know, if I was ever going to commit armed robbery, I think I’d choose the location more carefully. One place I definitely would NOT select would be a massive casino-hotel, with dozens of eyewitnesses and cameras able to identify the brand of underwear I’m wearing at a hundred paces. But, hey – I guess I’m not the criminal mastermind that O.J. is. Remember my rant about criminals having no brains? ‘Nuff said.

So, anyway, Simpson was booked Sunday evening on two counts of robbery with a deadly weapon, two counts of assault with a deadly weapon and one count each of armed burglary and conspiracy to commit burglary. But here’s where it really gets good. Evidently, after this event took place, O.J. called up one of the victims to apologize and say that he regretted the incident. Oh, okay, O.J. – I guess you can go, then! As long as you’ve learned your lesson! After all, you've never done this sort of thing before, right? Oops!

What the heck – he made it thirteen years since he killed his wife and Ron Goldman…at least we’ll know to be on the lookout in 2020…at the rate he's going, that'll be the year O.J. strikes again!

You know what – I don’t think he’s getting out of this one. Too many witnesses, too many cameras, and too few people who don’t want to see this lazy-eyed psycho zipping around his favorite golf course or telling the news media that he’s “100% not guilty”. Nope. Game over. You’re going up the river, O.J., and I, for one, think the world is better off for it. Given that the robbery counts alone carry prison sentences of up to 30 years each, it’s probable you’ll have 60 years to relive your football days. Only this time, the team you’ll be running from actually does want to kill you.

Oh, and I’d just like to point out that Simpson’s failed book, originally titled "If I Did It," was renamed by the Goldman family to "If I Did It: Confessions of the Killer."

It hit bookstores Thursday, the same day of the alleged memorabilia heist. Hahahahahaha

Welcome to the [legal] Jungle!

2007-09-14T07:12:00.000-05:00

Today's blog is focused on our favorite 80s hair metal tycoon and idiot savant, Mr. Axl Rose. Now, as we all know, Guns 'N Hosers...sorry...Roses took a nose dive around fifteen years ago, and have never recovered, despite the best efforts of Axl to keep things afloat. Well, now he's got new problems.

Evidently, a security guard is suing Axl, claiming the GNR wailer kicked him in the head at a concert in 1996. Catch that? 1996. ELEVEN YEARS AGO. Was GNR even performing back then? Wait. Don't answer that. Let's just assume they were. It'll be more fun.

Now, normally, I'd be predisposed to believe anyone who claims Axl abused them in any way whatsoever, but this is just too far-fetched. If you get kicked in the head, suffer extreme trauma and are forced to undergo medical treatment, you seek compensation immediately. What was this guy doing, waiting for the next surge in GNR popularity before filing the lawsuit? While this is generally a good idea (law school 101 is "Never sue poor people"), I could have told him back in 1992 that GNR would probably be recording jingles for dogfood commercials for the rest of their collective careers.

My guess is that this guard was coked out of his skull (like every GNR concertgoer in the 90s) and had no idea at the time he had been kicked in the head at all. Then, years later, as he was bemoaning his lackluster lot in life as he clocked up the overtime guarding the trailer for Lance Bass's third backup singer, decided to relive the glory days and pulled up concert footage on his iPod. Then, upon seeing the infamous kick, he figured that was the point at which his life started on the downward spiral (as if guarding an idiot like Axl Rose wasn't enough of an indication that the descent had already begun), and decided to wring a few bucks out of Axl's leathery bandana-wrapped hide.

Oh, and it gets even better...the lawsuit further alleges that, unless Axl is punished, he "will continue to commit willful assaults of the nature described herein on innocent members of the public and security personnel, both during and outside of Guns 'N Roses concerts."

Whoa...back up the van, buddy -- are you actually claiming that there are people out there who still attend Guns 'N Roses concerts? Wow. And I thought being a GNR concert PERFORMER would be the lowest one could sink. Guess I was wrong.

The Reunion

2007-09-13T08:45:00.000-05:00

I know my wife's already blogged about this, but I feel compelled to drop my two cents on the table. And, since it happens to be my table, there's nothing any of you can do to stop me. So there.

So, anyway, my ten-year college reunion is fast approaching, and as such, the website lists the current alums who are going to be attending. When I checked it this morning, I found that my wife's ex-boyfriend, let's call him "Ratboy", will be there. To put the matter briefly, Ratboy broke up with my lovely wife just before graduation and, as you might imagine, broke her heart as a result.

Now, having never met the guy, I can't really say that I hate him. Rather, I'd say that, if he lost his job, his home, his girlfriend, and his dog, and wound up grubbing pennies out of the gutter in order to eek a meager existence at the bottom rung of the socio-economic ladder...I can't say I'd lose a lot of sleep. If any at all.

That said, I have very strong opinions on how we should approach the reunion. True, the guy did hurt my wife, and that can't go unpunished. However, my wife is currently considering calling him (out of the blue, mind you -- they haven't spoken in ten years) and making sure that everything is okay before they see each other at the reunion. I think that act would not be in her best interests. Here's how the conversation would go (pseudonym used to protect the guilty):

EMILY: "Hi, [Ratboy]...it's Emily Dykstra -- formerly Emily McDermitt...do you remember me? We used to date at Calvin."

RATBOY: "Umm...Emily...Emily...oh, yeah! I remember now! Umm....how are you?" (thinking, "Uh-oh...this can't be good...better be cool and pretend not to remember")

EMILY: "Well, I saw you're going to be at the reunion, and since we're going too, I wanted to make sure everything was okay between us, so there's no awkwardness."

RATBOY: "Ummm....sure....I guess....I didn't know there was anything wrong." (thinking, "Okay...good...let's pretend not to remember that I broke up with you, and that anything could possibly be awkward as a result")

EMILY: "Well, you did break up with me, after all."

RATBOY: "Did I? I thought it was mutual." (thinking, "Excellent! A chance to share the blame!")

EMILY: "No...you broke up with me. You broke my heart, [Ratboy]."

RATBOY: "Oh....umm....yeah...sorry about that." (thinking, "That's right, baby -- I'm a heartbreaker! Every girl wants a piece of Ratboy!")

EMILY: "Well, anyway...are we okay?"

RATBOY: "Sure...we're okay...I'll see you at the reunion, alright?" (thinking, "Dude! I'm a playa!")

EMILY: "Okay! Bye, [Ratboy]!"

RATBOY: "Right back at 'cha, Em!" (thinking, "Lemme hear ya say Rat-boy!" *Rat-boy!*)

There...you see? Pull off that little call and you hand Ratboy all the power. He'll end up feeling like Rico Suave, and when we see him at the reunion, he'll be even more arrogant and self-absorbed than he was when Em was dating him. So, again, I say we hit him where it hurts.

No, not there. Ratboy wouldn't feel any pain from that.

Instead, I'm saying we dress up, go to the reunion looking awesome, and be very cordial and mature when we see him. We greet him pleasantly, much in the same fashion that you might greet your great-aunt Muriel upon meeting her at a family function. Hello...how are you...good to see you again. And then move on to more interesting conversations.

Want to kick him in the jimmies from a psychological perspective? One word: indifference.

Who's with me??

R.I.P., The Criminal "Mastermind"

2007-09-11T08:16:00.000-05:00

Oh, those wacky 7-Eleven clerks!! Always trying to get away with something!

Seems a resident of Roseville, California, had purchased five Mega Millions lotto tickets from a local store, and then, following the drawing, entered a local 7-Eleven to check if his numbers had won. He handed his tickets to the clerk, Ms. Rajinder Kaur, who informed him he had won $4. Excellent!! She cheerfully handed over the money, and then pocketed the ticket...which was actually worth over a half-million dollars. Bummer!!

Welllll, the tickets were actually signed by the rightful owner (a pretty smart guy, as it turns out), so our opportunistic 7-Eleven clerk is now being held on suspicion of grand theft.

Smoooooooth one, there, Raj. Glad to hear you've almost finished your classes at the Keystone Cops Academy of Thievery. Next time, why don't you pull out the old black ski mask, grab the bag with the dollar sign on it and try to knock over the Metro City Bank? Don't worry -- the deputy probably doesn't have any bullets in his gun.

Man, criminals are stupid! I remember seeing a news program in which a retired policeman stated, "It doesn't take a lot of brains to be a crook...but most crooks have none at all!" How true indeed. Just think back to your high school, and recall all the students whom you were betting would end up in jail. Odds are, they're in jail. Not because society did them wrong or their lawyer was incompetant...they're in jail because they were stupid.

In the case of my high school, I can think of one guy who was caught trying to steal a car that was parked in front of a police station, another who got nailed for cooking up crystal meth after he visited a local pharmacy and tried to buy a case of Sudafed because he had "the baddest cold ever", and a guy who bragged about how he had stolen money from local drug dealers...and was beaten severely when they heard all about it.

And the worst thing about all of this, criminals actually believe that crime is a great idea because working is too hard. Yeah. Remember what I said about being as dumber than a sack of rocks? Yup.

So much for the Andy DuFresnes of the world...but then again, he was innocent.

Chillin' in Beantown!

2007-09-10T14:57:00.000-05:00

Different surroundings, today -- this morning, I woke up early, kissed my wife and daughter goodbye, and hopped on a plane to Boston. Given that my team includes people from three offices (Chicago, Boston, and New York, to be precise), I made a point to visit the latter two once this quarter...helps keep me in the loop. Anyway, despite the fact that I flew out of O'Hare, I actually don't have much to rant about.

Well, there was this one thing. But it wasn't much. Really.

I boarded the plane, found my seat, stowed my gear, and sat down, at which time the attendant announced that the flight wasn't full...bonus number one!! Yippee!! And, wonder of wonders, there was an unoccupied middle seat next to me -- bonus number two! I was actually able to jam my bag under the middle seat, leaving me with a significant amount of legroom. Is this my lucky day?!! Once the other passengers had taken their seats, I glanced behind me and noticed that the seat behind me was empty. *Gasp* Why...that means that...I can recline my seat and not be accused of hypocrisy!!! Bonus number three!!! Huzzah!! I would have dropped to my knees and wept, had it not been for the other passengers crowding the aisle.

And my pride, of course. There's always that.

You could almost guess what happened next. That's right...the passenger across the aisle spotted the empty seat and decided to upgrade from his middle seat, parking his butt right behind me. Nuts! There goes my United Airlines Barcalounger! Bonus number three rescinded!

Well, other than that, the flight went well. No turbulence to speak of, no annoying passengers, a full can of tomato juice (as opposed to a half-full cup)...and the guy in front of me didn't even try to recline his seat. I don't know what I'll do with myself. I actually had a good experience in an airplane. I think I'll go buy a lottery ticket...I'm evidently having an awesome day.

Too bad Em and Morgan aren't here....awwww....now I miss my family. Drat. So much for the perfect day. Bah!

I said, "DO YOU WANT TO BUY SOME POT??"

2007-09-06T08:40:00.000-05:00

I imagine that's how it sounded on that crisp Sunday morning at Northeastern University when two students leaned out their second floor dorm room window and loudly informed a friend at a neighboring building that they were selling marijuana.

This is pure speculation, of course. The only way to know for sure what it sounded like would be to ask the two plainclothes police officers who happened to be walking along the sidewalk between the two buildings. Upon hearing the "black light special", the cops hustled up the stairs and found the two students in possession of about four ounces of marijuana, drug paraphernalia (including a scale) and several bottles of alcohol.

They plead not guilty.

Ow! Ow! My head is spinning from the stupidity! Owwwwwww!!!

Let's review -- not only were they dumb enough to bring illegal substances on campus, they announce the sale to everyone in the general vicinity, are overhead by - not one, but TWO police officers, and then, when caught with the evidence (which was laying out in the open IN THEIR DORM ROOM), claim it's not theirs.

America! What a country!

In a bizarre sort of way, I suppose we should admire their audacity and sheer nerve in the face of adversity. But in a more accurate way, we should decry their utter stupidity and beat them with a sack of oranges until they can't stand up.

Remember how I wrote a few weeks ago that Americans are getting dumber? Well, it's true -- even at a university, dumbness runs rampant. The two students here are both 18, were both college freshmen (until the administration canned them), and are now facing a possible 2-year jail sentence. And I, for one, say good riddance. Maybe their new room...er...cell mates will be more understanding. At best, maybe they'll teach 'em to keep their mouths shut...hopefully without the use of a shank.

So, I award 3-5 moron points to Michael Emery and Matthew Ferrante, otherwise known as Gomer and Festus. If you smarten up, maybe you'll get a reduced sentence, but I'm betting you'll do the full nickel.

Labor Day...Seriously!

2007-09-04T08:29:00.001-05:00

How was my weekend? In a word, busy.

Emily and I needed to rent a minivan on Saturday, so we set out (at 9am) for Enterprise to pick it up. After driving for a while, we noticed that we were in the land of corn. Upon checking the directions, we saw that Google Maps couldn't find the address I entered, and instead sent me to a different address. Five miles distant.

We spun a quick U-turn and proceeded north for five miles to the area where Enterprise's website claimed their rental site was. It was not there...or anywhere within sight, so we broke down and called them. No answer. We called again. No answer again. I pulled to the side of the road, called a third time, and let the phone ring thirty-seven times (I counted). They answered (good thing, too). We got directions, and found the rental location, which was obscured on a frontage road between a grove of trees and a Burlington Coat Factory. Grrrrr.

We entered the store and joined the mob of people awaiting the two "customer care representatives" to "serve" us. After twenty minutes of waiting, we finally were able to...wait further...at the front of the line. After another ten minutes, we headed outside to take possession of the van, and noticed it was gone. The other Enterprise person had used it to drive another customer to a different location. So, we got the van a full ten minutes after that.

When we got the van, the tank was empty. The sales guy said, "Just bring it back empty." *insert cheesy smile*

I told him we were returning the van after closing. The sales guy said, "Just drop the keys in the drop box." *cheesy smile, again*

That evening, I drove back to Enterprise, parked the van, grabbed the keys, and looked for the drop box. No drop box. Looked for the mail slot. No mail slot. Tried to shove the keys under the door. No dice. *insert furious anger*

So, I took the keys, got in my car, drove home, and went to bed.

We called the 800 number for Enterprise the next morning and asked, "How in name of Zeus's second red-headed stepchild are we supposed to return this van?" They said, "Use the drop box." I said, "There's no drop box. Check your records." They checked their records. Then they exclaimed, "There's no drop box! Go to a different rental location." We did, and dropped off the van (and the keys, this time).

So, I have a special weekend rate of 74.99 moron points for both locations. If they don't return them in perfect condition, I charge double. Oh, and just so you know, I made sure the van's tank was bone dry when I dropped it off. They'll need a sail and a rudder to get to the nearest gas station. Serves 'em right.

The Tinman's Pet Peeves - Day Five

2007-08-31T07:20:00.000-05:00

Ugh...the hens were in rare form today. In addition to Hen #3 loitering in the aisle, trying to decide whether she wanted to sit next to Hen #1 or Hen #4, all the while blocking no fewer than twenty-five other passengers from finding seats, all four of them were clucking madly during the entire trip, illustrating today's pet peeve with an eloquence I would not have expected from them.

They were cackling about all the stuff they wanted...or, rather, the stuff they claimed to need. New shoes. A new car. New carpet for the coop. A new rooster on the roof. That sort of thing. The worst part of it all was, they continually bantered back and forth about how much they needed all of it. Normally, I'm not a violent person, but listening to this exchange made me want to whip out a copy of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs and bludgeon them across the beaks with it.

For the uninitiated, Maslow's Hierarchy categorizes needs into different stages, from physiological (i.e. food, water, oxygen), all the way up to self-actualization (i.e. morality, creativity, etc.). Nowhere on this list will you find Estee Lauder meerkat feces mascara.

Listening to these four morons, I came to one conclusion. Conspicuous consumption, folks -- that's the limestone foundation upon which our society is based! Forget all that "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" rubbish...listen to the hens long enough, and you'll swear that your waking hours are focused exclusively on amassing your treasure trove of stuff. Because, according to the hens, "...if we don't get what we want, we're just going to [flop around a lot and then] die." Insertion mine.

Personally, I wouldn't mind withholding a few "needs" from the hens...just to test that little theory. If I'm right, they'll live to cluck another day, and I'll get to rub their feathers in it. If I'm wrong, well...even better. :)

I know I fall into the same trap, given my strong desire for a '66 Corvette and a 50" plasma screen TV...but I know these are wants...I need neither one. Right now, I have a loving family, great friends, a job, a house, a car, and, well, this blog.

Everything else is just details.

I'd give moron points to the hens...but they have enough, and hence, don't need them.

The Tinman's Pet Peeves - Day Four

2007-08-30T07:27:00.000-05:00

SUVs. Yeah, you heard me -- SUVs. I know I risk invoking the wrath of my former employer (I spent ten years enslaved to big oil), but I really do need to point out the scourge these vehicles have become, for several reasons.

First, they're big. Ever been caught in the shadow of one of these earthbound levithans? Once, one pulled past me in traffic while I was fiddling with my iPod, and I swear, I thought a solar eclipse had taken place. As soon as it cleared my front bumper, the air displacement caused by its sheer bulk moving at near-breakneck speed pulled my car into the adjoining lane, resulting in numerous honks, screaming, and angry looks. And that was just from me.

Second, they're loud. If the engine noise doesn't rattle the fillings out of your teeth, the bass pounding out of the rocket booster-sized subwoofers will. And it's not even the Sir Mix-A-Lot lovers who are guilty of this crime. One time, I heard the Dies Irae movement from Mozart's Requiem while the guilty party was still a full five blocks distant. Ironic, in that the particular movement in question references the end of the world. I'd have looked around for the four horsemen, but I'm confident had they appeared, they would have immediately become embedded in the six-foot titanium grill of the oncoming Humvee. Have a nice Doomsday, boys!

Third, they bring out the worst in people. Ever caught a glimpse of the common SUV driver as they shriek past you like a banshee on a feeding frenzy? They're seizing, they're bellowing, they're frothing at the mouth. Rather like a football linebacker. Or a professional wrestler. Or a member of Congress. And it happens to everyone who drives these things -- men, women, young, old, short, tall...everyone! One of these days, I'll follow one of them as they tear through traffic, just to see where they go. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised to see the driver pull into a parking spot at the local church, hop out of his vehicle, put on his collar, and head inside. Let's face it - no one's immune.

So, ditch the SUV, folks...go buy a Prius. If not for the sake of your fellow man, consider that we've smacked the environment around enough, and one of these days, she's going to want retribution. And you, my maniacal little SUV junkie, will be on the top of her hit list. Trust me -- you don't want to be on the receiving end of that kind of payback.

The Tinman's Pet Peeves - Day Three

2007-08-29T07:13:00.001-05:00

Rain...and, more importantly, rust.

Just kidding.

My third pet peeve is bad grammar. Yeah, I know I'm nitpicking, so don't bother pointing that out. I am also keenly aware that I, too, make the occasional error in grammar, but the fact that I am admitting it makes the very point immaterial.

What I am referring to here are those people who, despite 12 years of elementary school, junior high school, and high school (or, in the case of some of the guys I went to school with, 12 years of elementary school), revel in the fact that they can't speak their own language. People in this group feel the innate need to change simple English words to make them still simpler. For example, the word "library" becomes "lahbary," "ask" is transmuted to "ax," and even "language" de-evolves into "languitch." Worst of all, more "complex" statements like "Do you want to..." are changed to "Y'unt'to..."

This, as you might imagine, is somewhat prevalent in the deep south. Or any region where gun clubs outnumber schools.

Hear me well, o speech manglers: you are NOT SPEAKING ENGLISH!! As much as you may decry immigration, there are, in fact, people whose English is far superior to yours, despite the fact that it is not their first language! Oh, and while we're on the subject, claiming "Ah'm jest a liddle country" does not improve the situation!! So, turn off the monster truck rally and watch the network news for few minutes. If you have problems understanding the news anchor, or if the phrase, "This guy jest don't speak mah languitch." echoes even once throughout your cavernous cranium, it's time to pull the yellow pages out from beneath junior's butt on the dining room chair and find an ESL class at the local learning annex, so you can sign up for some "fancy book lernin!"

At the very least, you'll understand what people are saying when they make fun of you. Like here, for example.

The Tinman's Pet Peeves - Day Two

2007-08-28T07:03:00.000-05:00

Handshakes. Not all handshakes, mind you -- I rather like the idea of extending a hand and showing a smile to my fellow human being...keeps me from noticing that they've just made a statement in the form of a question.

My pet peeve today is focused on a specific group of handshakes - ones I've chosen to call the Unprofessional Handshakes. To illustrate, let's review two handshakes in this category:

1. The Limp Fish This is the type of handshake that sighs, "Oh, alright...I guess I could muster the strength to greet you." The flaccid, clammy hand is extended (like a wet rag on a stick) and held in place, almost as if the effort of moving the arm negated any possible blood flow to the muscles of the hand. When shaken, this hand wiggles like...well, like a limp fish, leaving one with the profound (and almost inescapable) desire to tear away from the experience and vigorously wipe one's hand on one's pant leg, in an effort to scrub the feeling away.

2. The Bonecrusher Ah, yes...the handshake that bellows, "I WILL DESTROY YOU, PATHETIC CREATURE!!!" Jerks who employ this method of greeting extend their hand authoritatively, grasp yours firmly, and then proceed to squeeze until the sweat from your palm backs up into your body and is forced out your tear ducts, at which point the subject will shake your hand vigorously, until your tears fly into his mullet haircut, leaving it glistening and vibrant, ready for the next encounter.

Bah. I hate this -- I prefer to get to know someone over a drink, or in the course of a conversation, but all too often, one's handshake echoes one's personality. And sometimes, you know exactly what that personality is, before even touching their hand. By that point, unfortunately, it's too late, and you're forced to meet. Personally, I'd much rather be able to politely decline the encounter.

"Hi there, how are y--oooo, sorry, buddy...I see you've got a limp fish, there. Tell you what, why don't you just give me a nice wave, huh?" Yeah...that'd be much better.

So, for all the unprofessional handshakers out there, please remember a simple rule: endeavor to shake someone's hand exactly as firmly as they shake yours. For the limp fishes, tighten that grip. For the bonecrushers, ease off. If not, you might find your hand holding not my hand, but a big ol' handful of squishy, oozing moron points.

And trust me, those things stick to everything.

The Tinman's Pet Peeves - Day One

2007-08-27T07:04:00.000-05:00

This week, I thought I'd take a page out of my wife's book and focus on the same item for five consecutive days. So I'm going to list five of my top pet peeves. Maybe you share a few. If not, feel free to share more of your own. I probably share them...I've got a lot of peeves, after all. Now, on with the show!

The hens were back on the train this morning. Unfortunately, someone else had taken a set amidst their number before Hen #4 could enter the car, and as a result, the fourth hen had to stand. Shortly after the interloper joined the coop, her eyes glazed over and her expression transformed from a wan "I can't believe it's Monday" look to a crazed, "These chicks are lucky I don't have an ax" grimace. I feel her pain.

I'm digressing a little, but not as much as you might think, as the hens exhibited today's pet peeve quite eloquently. Pet peeve number one is people who end every statement with a question mark.

Anyone know somebody like this? Here's the conversation I heard:

Hen #1: How was your weekend, Susan?

Hen #2: Oh, Jane, you'll never believe how bad Saturday was! I went shopping? And I found the prettiest pair of shoes, but then I couldn't find the right size? So the salesperson went in the back to look? And then I found another pair I liked even better, but they weren't in my size either? So when the salesperson came back, I asked her to look for a different pair? And she got mad at me? And so I left...it was SO bad!

You think I'm exaggerating. I would be, but I couldn't come up with stuff this good. This was an actual conversation. Grrrrr!

So, a couple of size 12, strappy, low-heeled moron points for Hen #2 (Yeah, I know they're big for a woman, but I had a look at her feet while I was standing behind her in line for the train...she's got shoes that put Ronald McDonald's to shame).

Lady Justice isn't blind...she's STUPID!!

2007-08-24T08:36:00.001-05:00

Oh, you'll get a kick out of this one. Following an all-too-common turn of events, the American Justice System has officially admitted its complete and utter incompetence. Well, not in so many words, but they might as well have done so.

Nicole Richie and Lindsay Lohan, our favorite pair of empty-headed, self-absorbed, useless space-wasters, have skirted the law, managing to evade accountability for their respective misdeeds, proving once again that in America, you can be stupid, jobless, irresponsible, immoral, thoughtless, and vain -- but if you're also rich and pretty, you can get away with murder.

Let's see now...Lohan was charged with DUI and being under the influence of cocaine following two drunk-driving arrests in California earlier this year. Her punishment for these crimes: ONE DAY IN JAIL and 10 days of community service!! Are you kidding me? One wonders what she promised the judge to get that sweet deal. On second thought, let's leave that one alone...I'm still clinging to a shred of optimism.

And if that's not enough, let's consider Ms. Richie. Last December, she was arrested while driving her Mercedes Benz the wrong way down a major highway in Burbank. Once the arresting officer managed to yank her skanky butt out of the car, he found she was high on pot and vicodin. Her sentence for this crime: 80 MINUTES IN JAIL!!! Crud...I've spent more time at the Post Office trying to buy a book of stamps!

What kind of messed up country do we live in? Everyone in Washington is trying to put forth the notion that the U.S.A. is A-OK, but we all know the truth, don't we? The idiots of the world, fresh from their naps in high school study hall, have finally taken over. Say goodbye to logic and rational thought! Gone forever are intellectual debate and impartial justice! Take a note - the proverbial "High Road" is official and indefinitely closed.

I'm disgusted, and at the moment, I see only one solution. If these two twits can really get away with murder, I suggest they give it a shot - on each other. At best, we'll lose one of 'em, and the other will go to jail forever. At worst, we'll lose one of 'em.

Hey, half a loafer is better than none at all.

Stupid walk! Stupid umbrella! Stupid RAIN!!

2007-08-23T19:06:00.000-05:00

Here I am, sitting on the 6:50pm train home to Aurora. I'm taking a later train tonight, because a co-worker is leaving next week, and we had a going away party for her. I'm glad I attended, since we worked together on a couple significant projects, but now, sitting on the train, I'm reconsidering my position.

Thanks to the thunderstorms, the wind, the rain, and a woefully malfunctioning umbrella, I can say without hyperbole that I am soaked to my very skin. Nearly everywhere. I shan't elaborate. I'm still annoyed at the fact that I left a nice, warm bar (and my nice, cool martini glass) to walk a good two miles to the train station in the pouring rain. For the first five minutes, I thought, "I should just find a Starbucks and wait it out."

Then my umbrella broke.

Five minutes later, waiting it out was moot. I was drenched and miserable, and the one thing standing between me and a warm bed was over a mile of concrete and a forty-minute train ride. I braved the former and made it to the station. Then the train was delayed, and my forty-minute ride turned into an hour and five minute ride. Then to an hour and twenty minute ride. Now, I have no idea when I'll be leaving.

Evidently, there are a couple of downed power lines on the tracks, so we'll be sitting here for a while. I, along with the other passengers, am placing my home in the ComEd service crew's ability to drag their butts out of the bar, fall into a cab, and sober up enough to make their way to Westmont and clear the path.

Yeah. That's gonna happen soon.

So, to H-E-double hockey sticks with the walk, my umbrella, and the stupid, STUPID rain. My moron points are used up for the night, and I haven't even ranted about a living person. Bah.

Bah! Stupid People!!

2007-08-22T07:34:00.000-05:00

My rant today is pretty darn non-specific, I know, but until you have a couple days like I had, don't criticize. Come to think of it, don't criticize at all. That's my job, and you know it.

Two days ago, I was heading to the train station, when traffic around me slowed to a crawl, and then stopped completely...with me right in the middle of it. Evidently, two morons ahead of me decided to attempt to occupy the same space-time coordinates, resulting in a wreck. In the middle of the intersection. On the only road to the train station. With ten minutes before the departure of my train. See where I'm going with this one?

Well, Goofus and Rufus, the designated representatives of the cross-dysfunctional law enforcement and towing crews, showed up and took their typical actions (namely, holding up traffic for ten minutes before finally admitting that the natural forces of erosion were insufficient to the task, and thus, their intervention was, in fact, required to move the two vehicles in question out of the intersection). That took another ten minutes, leaving me seething in my car for a full twenty minutes. Needless to say, I missed my train, and was forced to take a later one.

That was the start of my morning.

Five o'clock rolls around, and I make a mad dash for the train station -- a twenty-minute walk from my office. I make it there ten minutes before my train is scheduled to depart, only to find out that some pinheaded teenager at the LaGrange stop on the line was too engrossed in texting one of his slack-jawed, mouth-breathing cohorts to notice the approaching locomotive, and was, subsequently spanked to the pavement by several hundred tons of train. The kid lived, incidentally, but all trains were delayed by, in some cases, several hours.

That was my evening.

The next morning (i.e. yesterday), I left the house early, intent on getting to the station with more than enough time to make the train, regardless of any traffic snarls that might occur en route. I got to the station on time. I boarded my train on time. I found a seat on time. Then I sat waiting for 39 minutes while the metra conductors discovered and extinguished an electrical fire that started a couple cars behind mine. For the third time in a row, I arrived at my destination late.

That was the morning.

Why, why, WHY are people so completely incompetent at things that should be simple requirements for membership in the human race?!!! Don't answer -- it's rhetorical, so I already know the answer. It's because our society is too safe, and we've allowed the dumbest of our lot to get complacent. No longer do they need to worry about attacks from hungry lions, hostile Indians, or Jehovah's Witnesses (the invention of the "no soliciting" sign took care of that last group). Life has become easy, so their slam their brains into neutral, and cruise through life without encumbrance. Trouble is, more often than not, their bumbling ineptitude often impacts the rest of us more than it impacts them. Thus, no incentive to change.

I have no solution for this situation that wouldn't sound evil, so I'll refrain from moving in that direction. Suffice to say, I do have a simple test for my readers (both of you) to determine your respective groups. Below is a quote delivered by Tommy Lee Jones in the film Men In Black:

"A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals and you know it."

If you felt in any way offended by the above statement, you are officially floating in the shallow end of the gene pool, and, as the subject of today's blog, should cease all human contact and go live with monkeys. You'll be a lot happier. And you might learn a thing or two. Compared to you, monkeys are pretty smart.

The Worst Things About My Wife...

2007-08-21T07:04:00.000-05:00

Today's my wife's birthday. I won't tell you which one. She might, but then, she's never been all that sensitive about her age. I cry like a little girl when my birthdays come, but she doesn't.

In honor of this auspicious day, I thought I'd rant a little about my wife (given the nature of my blog, I really can't do otherwise). So, kick back and enjoy my list of the worst things about my wife:

1. Her Style
Have you ever seen how my wife looks? She puts colors together like Picasso, and finds outfits that would make Dolce and Gabbana pale by comparison! And, as if that wasn't enough, she's beautiful, too!! What chance do I have to impress people when she's standing next to me? I could be wearing a custom Armani tux, perfectly-shined shoes, and have had my hair done professionally. Heck, I could even have sprung for the Botox -- but were I to be standing next to her, I'd look like a flood victim. What's a guy to do?

2. Her Talent
A successful graphic designer and fine artist! Did you hear that? An artist!! I didn't marry a ditzy, talentless, useless, Paris Hilton-esque twit -- I married a woman who has an established portfolio of beautiful works of art that could be hanging in our home, were it not for the lack of frames and wall space. I'm not even more talented than this girl! I've got nothing! She is, without a doubt, my better half, and not only do I know it, but everyone I know knows it!!

3. Her Personality
Here's the real kicker -- not only is my wife talented and beautiful, but she's also a ton of fun to be around! Gone are the days when I could say, "No one's got good looks AND personality!" I used to be able to say that. Then I met my wife, and my nice, little perspective on the world came crashing down around me. Game over, pal -- you're in a whole new world, now, and you're not even fit to wash dishes in the back. Time to hand in the dishtowel and recognize your betters. Or, in my personal case, my wife.

4. Her Cooking
Anyone who has ever sampled my wife's cooking knows that she is, by anyone's standards, an amazing cook. Anything she touches just turns out great. And the worst part of it all is, she tries new stuff all the time. It's not like she just sticks with a couple dishes she knows how to make well -- she's always trying new ones! Have you any idea what this does to my palette? No matter what restaurant I frequent or whose house I visit, the food I eat will forever be judged based on the gold standard of my wife's food. And that's an IMPOSSIBLE standard. I'll never like anything as much as I like her cooking. It's horrible.

5. Her Compassion
Oh, great...I really hate this one...she cares for people! A lot! She even looks to help people who get themselves in trouble and need to be bailed out! Like me. How do you think that makes me feel when I write blog entries, deriding a bunch of morons who bug me on a daily basis? Granted, she doesn't feel a lot of compassion for most of my blog victi...er...subjects, but she's still a very caring person. *sigh*

There you go -- those are the worst things about my wife. And that being the case, you can well imagine the number of trees (or in this case, electrons) I'd kill if I attempted to list the best things about my wife.

Emily is, in a nutshell, the best. Her only fault is that she has poor taste in men...but then again, that just worked out in my favor. :)

Happy birthday, Sweetheart.

Bwaak, bwaak, bwaak....bucaaaack!

2007-08-11T13:54:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I'm not quite sure what I meant by that title, either. Don't worry...it'll come back to me. Sooner or later.

So, anyway, I was riding the train to Chicago yesterday morning, and once again, I was forced to endure a massive infestation of annoying parasites that routinely infect my morning commute. I call them, "the other passengers." For those of you who have never had to deal with these pests, allow me to present a classification of the more well-known members of the genus:

1. passengi getouttamywayum: The common tardy passenger (characterized by a tendency to push and shove other passengers, often for little or no reason whatsoever)
2. passengi wazzatsmellum: The common unwashed passenger (characterized by a powerfully offensive odor, impervious to soap, anti-perspirant, and pine tree air fresheners)
3. passengi willyalookatthatum: The common tourist passenger (characterized by multiple recording devices, matching Chicago t-shirts, and a gaggle of inattentive young)
4. passengi zzzzzzzzum: The sleeping passenger (less common than its sister species, "L passengi no homeum")
5. passengi ventilatteum: The caffeinated passenger (characterized by its tendancy to double-fist large coffees into its gaping maw)

Now, I can usually handle most of the above breeds with at least a modicum of grace, since they are easily recognizable, and, more importantly, avoidable. However, on Friday, I happened to sit behind members of the classification passengi alwaysyakkin. Members of this group are difficult to spot and, at first glance, can appear quite benign. However, without careful observation, one may sit nearby and be immediately inundated by their loud and almost irritatingly shrill voice. I can't imagine the purpose for such behavior. Perhaps it's a defense mechanism, because attracting a mate is definitely right out.

Anyway, I sat down behind four, count 'em, FOUR of these. Five minutes after my butt hit the vinyl, all four passengers began cackling and clucking back and forth like a brood of old hens (see -- I knew that title had some relevance!). It was horrible. It's not that they were loud (and they were); it's not that they talked about pointless things (did they ever!). The main problem was, they played off one another, attempting to top the story of the moment, until, I swear, one of them likened the mural they painted on their offspring's bedroom ceiling to the Sistene Chapel. Call me insensitive, but judging by their makeup, I would call their painting skills into serious question.

I realize I'm a talkative guy, but when in the presence of many people early in the morning (on, for example, a redeye flight or, more aptly, a 7am commuter train), I keep my mouth shut, as do most of the other passengers. In some strange way, we realize that, all too soon, we'll be sitting in our cubes, surrounded by chattering co-workers (except for me, of course...all Google employees do is text each other). But not these four...oh, no...they thought that their stories were so entertaining, they must be shared with the world...what a bunch of self-aggrandizing magpies! As if I cared about the precise color separations of your dumb kid's drool, or the fact that your mouth-breathing dolt of a husband managed to balance his checkbook with only a $317 discrepancy!

It's time to own up to it, ladies -- no one cares! In the scope of the universe and all its grandeur, you are a meaningless footnote in the least-read volume of the Encyclopedia Surburbia. And, what's more, as enthralling as your lives may seem to you, I state for the record that the closest you'll ever get to being a real-life desperate housewife is to line your next pizza with pages from TV Guide. I'm not interested in your coop...er...house, or your coop...er...coupe (heheh..had to throw that one in there), or even (as crazy as it may sound) the poop...er...droppings of your semi-evolved mutated spawn!!

Do the world a favor and shut up. Or choose another train car...this one's mine. I was here first.

Water, water, every #@&!!* where!!

2007-08-09T07:03:00.000-05:00

It's been a crappy morning. It started early, got super crappy right off the bat, and my only hope is that it gets better. If not, more blog entries will follow, and they will, I promise, get progressively darker. There may even be cursing.

I woke up this morning at 3am (couldn't sleep), and went downstairs intending to play a relaxing game of sudoku on my blackberry until I fell asleep again. However, when I got downstairs, I heard a faint noise that sounded like running water coming from the basement. Not good. I walked down the stairs, only to find two inches of water over the entire basement floor, and a five-foot fountain gushing from the sump pump pipe. Now, had I been standing in the reflecting pool at Daley Plaza, this sight would have been quite pretty...but in my basement, it was not. Instead, I became very, very angry. The super-annoying thing was, water wasn't running into the house from the outside...it was being actively pumped in by the very device whose sole purpose in this world was to keep water out. Stupid sump pump.

Chaos ensued, as you may have imagined, along with many colorful metaphors from yours truly.

I managed to get the sump turned off (thus stemming the flow of water) and did my best with the wet/dry vac to collect some of the water. Soon, however, it became apparent that my resources would be unequal to the task. We made phone calls to the insurance company and the plumber, none of whom were around...we'll see what happens when they get back to us. I'd really love it if they showed up immediately and handled the matter quickly and inexpensively. I'd love that, but only in the same way that I love elves and unicorns...given that they're all fictional.

I should point out that very little was lost, and what was ruined wasn't irreplaceable. I should point that out, but I'm not going to.

What I am going to point out is the most annoying part of being a homeowner: STUFF FALLS APART. It doesn't matter if you live in an 80-year-old house or one that you just built; if you own a house, you can be assured that, right this very minute, something is on the verge of falling apart. And those things are aren't are in various stages of falling apart-ness. You'd love to think that, once you fix or replace something, that you won't need to worry about it, but that's a load of donkey muffins. All you do when you repair or replace part of your house is reset the "fall apart" clock for that particular item to zero...and as soon as you flip the switch, the clock starts running again.

I really wish I had someone to blame about this one...but as the universe tends toward chaos, I've got no scapegoat.

Stupid universe.

Arrrrghhhhh! More Airline Insanity!!

2007-08-01T07:05:00.000-05:00

I've been traveling a lot. Read my wife's blog -- you'll see how much. San Francisco, Houston, New York, Mountain View...and that's just the past six weeks! Just last night, I returned from my first trip to the Googleplex (Google's California headquarters, for the uninitiated), and my flight home was nothing if not hellish.

For starters, I was in the rear of the plane, three rows from the back. I had an aisle seat, which was good, but I was seated behind a family (with their baby and 4 year old child). And, to top it all off, being in the rear of the plane put me in all-too-close proximity with the lavatory (you see where I'm going with this).

Well, as the other passengers boarded the plane, the 4-year-old begins talking. Now, as a parent of a small child, I suppose I should have been more understanding, but the problem was, the kid talked as if he was calling his mother from across a football field surrounded by throngs of screaming fans.

And this was BEFORE the plane took off. It only got worse after takeoff.

He continued talking like this for the full four hours we were in the air. Not once, NOT ONCE did his oblivious adult caretakers make even the slightest effort to silence him. In fact, they barely spoke the whole trip. On and on he talked, each word louder and more useless than the last, until finally, when he realized that no one was listening, he began jabbering in his native language (he was Indian, by the look of it). Grrrr.

Now, in addition to this, his grandmother, who was seated ahead of me, jammed her seat back to the point where I couldn't see my laptop (I was watching a movie at full volume in a futile attempt to drown out little Ashook and his ongoing commentary). I've ranted on this point before, so I won't elaborate.

Now I'm sitting in my seat, quietly enduring physical and aural abuse, when the collective bowels of a third of the passengers decided that they needed some relief. No fewer than twenty passengers made a beeline for the lavatory in the rear of the plane and formed a line in the aisle running next to my seat. Well, at the risk of being crude, let's just say that one or two of them must have been coming directly from an all-you-can-eat burritofest at the local Taco Bell, because several minutes after the line formed, I added olfactory abuse to my list.

You can imagine my pain. All I needed was for the flight attendant to switch the movie to still images of Goya paintings, stroll back to my seat, and begin shoveling gorgonzola cheese down my throat in order for the abuses to hit all my senses at once.

Well, the plane finally landed, and I was able to disembark. This was, without a doubt, the worst flight I've had yet...it could be worse, to be sure, but I hope I never endure worse.

I really hate gorgonzola cheese.

What's the heck is up with Wendy's??

2007-07-16T12:36:00.000-05:00

Seriously...how stupid does this company think we are? I saw an ad this morning for their "new" burger. You know, the one with bacon. For the uninitiated, Wendy's has this nasty little habit of rolling out new burgers every so often to showcase their creativity.

Unfortunately, the creativity of your basic fast food chain only goes so far, as Wendy's "new" burgers generally include random combinations of bacon, swiss cheese, ranch dressing, and canadian bacon.

Wow! My mind is spinning! I am amazed by the depth of creativity!

I'll get angrier in a moment -- I'm in a training class right now and can't blog much.

Free money!!

2007-07-12T08:30:00.000-05:00

Want evidence of the East/West cultural divide? I've got it right here.

According to Reuters, some random Japanese guy has, since April, been leaving envelopes full of cash in public bathrooms in various locations ranging from Hokkaido to Okinawa. Each envelope has the word "remuneration" written upon it, and includes a letter giving the writer's hope that the money will be "useful for your pursuit of knowledge." While each one has contained a relatively small sum (10,000 yen, or about 82 dollars), the total amount collected has grown to nearly $33,000. Due to the lack of surveillance cameras in the places where the envelopes have been found (i.e. within the toilet stalls), no one has a clue as to the identity of the mystery man.

Sounds good, huh? It could happen in the U.S., right?

Sure. But this is where the similarities between our two cultures end. I know this because approximately 400 envelopes have been turned in to the authorities. To be sure, no one knows the total envelopes distributed, but the fact that 400 were returned means something.

Darn honest people, the Japanese.

Of course, there is another difference. One that I know from personal experience. When returning from my business trip to Houston yesterday, I stopped in the restroom. Standing in front of the urinal, I noticed a small pile of change (around $1.25, as best I could figure) resting on a shelf. My first thought was, "Hey -- free money!"

My second thought was, "There's no way in he** I'm touching that!!"

Maybe the Japanese just have really clean restrooms.

Sorry for gettin' in the way, Mildred!!

2007-07-09T08:25:00.000-05:00

I was returning home from running an errand with Morgan on Saturday, when we witnessed more examples of vehicular idiocy than I care to recount here. Seriously. I thought a dolt convention was in town. And we're not just talking about your run-of-the-mill stupidity here -- this was full-blown, brain-the-size-of-a-walnut moronity.

Yeah, I know that's not a word. I hereby coin it. Start using it.

Anyway, let me share this one story. I was driving south on Route 59 (my mistake, there) in the right hand lane with traffic on all sides. As I approached a minor cross street, a turn lane split off to the right. However, with bumper-to-bumper traffic all around, there wasn't enough room for anyone behind me to get into the lane yet; all we could do was wait.

Evidently, this wasn't good enough for woman behind me, a crazed blue-haired rocker jockey (incidentally appearing to be around two years older than Moses's parents), who proceeded to lay on the horn and give me a series of rude hand gestures, none of which I recognized. Perhaps they were the rudest gestures she learned at her first job as a pterodactyl trainer.

Oh, hey -- sorry for forcing you to wait a few more seconds, Aunt Bea! I certainly didn't mean for you to miss the early bird special at Perkins! Tell you what -- why don't you trundle home, heat up some cream of wheat, turn on Wheel of Fortune, and call up your children to tell them how all people younger than you (i.e. everyone short of Abraham and Sarah) don't show you the proper respect!

Anyway, she continued this behavior until she was able to squeeze through and pass me, at which point she brought out another old favorite -- she looked at me like I was an errant schoolboy and waggled her index finger, as if to say, "Naughty, naughty, naughty!"

Well, I couldn't have that, so once traffic sped up in my lane, I hit the gas, passed her car, and then veered suddenly into the righthand turning lane, cutting her off and causing her to slam on the brakes. Then I jumped back into my lane and continued down the road.

I know that was petty and small, but if she's going to think of me as a naughty boy, at least now she has a good reason. And, if I'm lucky, my little stunt might have taken a few more years off her already out-of-warranty ticker. So much the better for the rest of us.

I know there are those among you who feel I should cut her a little slack. She's human, after all, and having the ol' expiration date looming ever closer is enough to make anyone jumpy. Who knows -- maybe she thought she saw the grim reaper in her rear view mirror and got spooked. In any case, I stand by my opinion. Whether or not she's dangling her toes in the deep end of the dead pool, she still acted like a psycho granny with a lead foot, and that alone qualifies her for this rant.

After all, the good may die young, but the annoying are immortal.

Now THERE'S a sharp statistic!

2007-07-03T08:08:00.000-05:00

Well, now. It appears that, mere months following the general elections in Nigeria, the price of machetes has been (what the heck, pun intended) cut in half. When prices were surveyed in the northeastern state of Gombe, researchers determined that a good quality machete that went for around six bucks prior to the election can now be purchased for the equivalent of three dollars.

"Before the conduct of the general elections, I was selling a minimum of seven machetes daily but can hardly sell one a day now," said Usman Masi, a Nigerian trader.

This is the kind of example I needed in my undergraduate economics classes. Throw out the widgets and get rid of the nuts and bolts. Bring on the supply and demand illustrations drawn from a militaristic state where the price of certain goods is largely determined by the population of thugs in the general vicinity.

And why not? It's a perfect example that students can get their heads around! Before the elections, gangsters needed weapons to enforce their will on the population. Now that the elections are over, they don't need as many weapons. Demand falls, price drops. Slam dunk.

I'll calling the people at ETS (the company behind the SAT, MCAT, GMAT, LSAT, and GRE exams, for the uninitiated) -- it's time to give Joe Bloggs a real business tutorial!

...and provide some global exposure as well.

Ditched the Dish!

2007-06-29T08:50:00.000-05:00

It’s official! We are no longer Dish Network subscribers. And I couldn’t be happier! In my humble (if not silent) opinion, the assorted primates and trolls employed by Dish Network are the biggest bunch of shysters and pickpockets heretofore unseen outside the confines of a maximum-security prison. Or New Jersey. Or Congress. But that’s the subject of another post.

Two months ago, we signed up for satellite TV, and following the installation by what I can only assume was the sole skilled, courteous technician in the company’s employ, I woke up to find that the receiver went to sleep about the same time I did, and henceforth, my Tivo recorded several hours of the Dish Network logo, bouncing around a black screen. While this might have entertained your average house plant (or Dish Network employee) for more than a few seconds, I became tired of it immediately, and began flipping through the manuals, in an attempt to turn it off.

Two hours, five discussion forums, and three angry phone calls later, I found out that it is impossible to disable the sleep function on my receiver. Essentially, this means that, unless I stay up all night and change channels at least once every four hours, the receiver will go to sleep and won’t wake up until someone presses a button on the remote control. Further, while the single-tuner receiver (which I do not own) allows users to disable this function permanently, the dual-tuner receiver (which I do own) does not. Still further, the Dish Network DVR (which I do not own) has the ability to wake up the receiver before recording, while Tivo (which I do own) does not. Nice.

I might add that one of the customer service reps with whom I spoke came up with an immediate solution – she told me all I had to do was put my Tivo in a box and buy the Dish Network DVR instead.

Thanks, Sheila. Spend a lot of time in flower shops, do you? No? Good thing. With a head that full of gas, you’d be mistaken for a helium tank.

Anyway, my imperfect solution was to set my Tivo to continually record programming throughout the night, to keep my narcoleptic satellite receiver from dozing off. This meant that I also had to get up each morning and delete half my Tivo’s programming, in order to get rid of the garbage I recorded just to keep the dang thing awake.

A few weeks later, Emily got fed up and called Dish Network again. This time, the customer service rep said there was an easy way to disable the sleep function. He walked her through the process, and we were done. Until the next morning, that is, when I found the stupid Dish Network screensaver active yet again. Stupid Dish Network receiver! Stupid Dish Network employee!!

So Em called and told them to take a hike. Evidently, they offered a lot to keep us around, but she was steadfast in her attempt to give them the virtual finger. Good work, Em! Way to stick to your guns, babe!

To summarize, Dish Network and all her mindless employees deserve to be locked in a dark room for ten years with no entertainment other than their stupid screensaver playing on a continuous loop. Of course, they’re so dense, they’d probably enjoy it.

Stupid News Coverage!!

2007-06-28T09:50:00.000-05:00

Now I'm really angry!! Google opened a new floor in our Chicago office yesterday, and while the news media were out in force, there were only a few interviews, a lot of wide shots of the office, and just a THREE SECOND CLIP OF ME!!! I'm annoyed! Given the length of time it took me to get into this place (seven months, FYI), I would have thought a minute or two of airtime would be warranted. But no! Three seconds only! And they only filmed me playing tennis on the Wii! Bah.

Oh, well...I guess you can judge for yourself:

Click here to view news story

See what I mean? Only three seconds!!

Write your news media and demand more of me!!

More Bad Grammar

2007-06-26T14:15:00.000-05:00

My wife wrote an entry this morning that focused on a misspelling in print. I will add to this with the following:

While watching TV last night, I came across a movie preview for a horror flick, after which the rating was displayed. The rating info read (and I quote):

R - for strong violence, torture, pervasive terror, grizzly images, language and some sexual material

Take note -- while there is a lack of grisly images in this film, there is an abundance of grizzly images.

Evidently, there are either a lot of bears or old guys with beards in this movie.

Idiots.

Those crazy Germans are at it again!!

2007-06-19T13:36:00.000-05:00

Well, here's a new one...a 15-year-old German student, facing being held back as a result of his substandard performance in school, used all the powers of his brain to come up with a way out of the situation. And no, it did not involve extra credit.

He paid a couple friends to break into his classroom and steal the report cards.

Niiiiiice one, there, Hans! I, for one, am amazed that such a brilliant ploy came from the mind of a failing junior high school student. Truly. It might have required a dozen (maybe even two dozen) neurons, all firing in rapid succession. Because we all know that, once the report cards are destroyed, the teacher's only option is to give all the students passing grades. No teacher keeps records apart from the report cards, and surely one couldn't expect professional educators to possess the mental faculties necessary to recall which students were passing and which were failing. One must marvel at the complex workings of the prepubescent criminal mind.

All sarcasm aside, however, it comes as no surprise whatsoever that, upon the attempted execution of this plan, the two students who attempted the theft (during a class, no less) were immediately waylaid by the other students, who jumped to the rescue of their teacher and, presumably, their grades. The thieves, after being pummeled mercilessly, were unmasked and handed over to the authorities, and after a brief interrogation, fingered their bumbling buddy as the mastermind behind the attempted heist. He's now facing time in another kind of classroom. I imagine that gym class is looking pretty good in comparison.

This story should be posted in all junior high schools everywhere, under big bold letters reading, "Attention students: If you think this is a plausible way of easily improving your performance, we're going to be holding you back a year."

"And if you don't know the definition of the word, 'plausible', make that two years."

Good luck.

All hail the Brother Chaps!!

2007-06-18T15:38:00.000-05:00

For all you Homestarrunner fans out there who were hoping to see Strong Bad, Marzipan, and The Cheat zipping across your late night TV lineup, it looks like you'll just have to keep hoping.

Comedy Central and Cartoon Network, entranced by the favorite web cartoon, were frantically attempting to convince brothers Matt and Mike Chapman to allow their creation to join the TV lineups, but have been disappointed by the Atlanta-based duo.

In a recent interview, Matt commented, "There was a brief flirtation with Comedy Central and Adult Swim. The whole TV thing seemed creepy. They wanted to plug it into their model -- that all comedy was gag-related, not character-driven. They left the door open, but we liked what we were doing and kept doing it online."

Matt went on to state that the retention of creative control as their primary reason for turning down the deal. "What they do works for them, but if we were doing our show there, we’d still have producers telling us what to do, what to change, what to write, etc. We love the control and the immediacy that writing and creating cartoons on the website brings us. As the ideas come, we can do whatever our whim is that week."

As much as I love Homestarrunner.com and would love to see more of it, the one thing I would detest is seeing the creation hacked into broadcast jetsam by grey-suited, crackberry-toting network executives, intent on "transforming" yet another creative venture into a bland, dumbed-down shade of its former greatness, all for the sake of satiating the desires of the Schlitz-guzzling, mullet-endowed masses.

For this reason more than any other, I applaud the Brothers Chaps for their decision. They created a superb group of characters, which, when coupled with their excellent writing and vocal talents, result in an entertaining comic short that I look forward to each and every day. If you haven't had the pleasure, visit www.homestarrunner.com and dig through the massive archive of past cartoons. It's well worth the time.

A pitcher of melon-ade flavored principle points to the Brothers Chaps.

An empty bowl of character points to the network execs. Better luck next time, you pack of faceless creativity-deprived drones. Sorry your latest Survivor-ripoff didn't do any better than your American Idol-ripoff.

Nice try, O.J.!

2007-06-15T14:45:00.001-05:00

Um..excuse me, but can I have my humble pie with an extra heaping dollop of COLD HARD POETIC JUSTICE, please?

Gotta love this one. Our favorite murderin' moron, O.J. Simpson, has been caught yet again in his own stupid ploy. Today, a judge awarded the rights to his ill-fated book "If I Did It" to none other than Fred Goldman, father of Ron Goldman, one of O.J.'s vict...I mean, alleged victims. But we all know the truth, don't we? Yeah. Take a look at that picture. Big, dumb, aaaaaannnnddd GUILTY!

So anyway, why am I so happy today? Surely the Goldman family won't be looking to publish this monstrous account, right? Well, there's a certain amount of shadenfreude involved here. Allow me to explain.

Years back, O.J. was found guilty in a civil court judgement, requiring him to pay millions of dollars in restitution to the family of his victims. Ever since then, he's been attempting to hide his money, in order to keep from having to pay up. After all, you can't pay restitution if you have no money. A year ago, this book deal comes through, and O.J. decides to set up a company in his daughter's name to own the rights. This was his idiotic ploy to hide the proceeds from his creditors. Well, they found out, and now the rights are going to Fred Goldman. And once Fred gets the rights, he'll have the opportunity to publish the book himself.

Why is this a good thing? Well, best reports at this time reveal that he's going to change the title to "Confessions of a Double Murderer."

What's better than O.J.'s book deal getting squashed due to widespread public anger? O.J.'s book getting published and spun as a confession, all the while helping to turn more and more American people against this blockhead.

With that, I award a big 'ol bowl of nice, cold revenge points to Fred Goldman...and no moron points to O.J. He's got a full complement already.

Those Quirky Brits!!

2007-06-14T08:40:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm really not surprised this time. London, the host city of the 2012 Olympic Games, has released their official logo. And, in true fashion with the culture that brought us steak and kidney pie, warm beer, and Prince Charles, the Brits' Olympic logo is just as hideous as one might imagine their national dental plan to be.

Just look at this thing -- how in the world could this be regarded as anything other than a complete train wreck? I stared at this monstrosity for five full minutes, attempting to ascertain the hidden meaning (much like one of those stupid magic eye pictures) before finally admitting defeat. I surfed over to the official website in an attempt to learn more, and found the following:

"The new emblem is dynamic, modern and flexible. It will work with new technology and across traditional and new media networks. It will become London 2012’s visual icon, instantly recognizable amongst all age groups, all around the world. It will establish the character and identity of the London 2012 Games and what the Games will symbolize nationally and internationally."

What was that? Instantly recognizable? Well, maybe, but only in the same way that the twisted flaming remains of a Ferrari that collided with a cement mixer are instantly recognizable as an automobile. This is pathetic!

And the worst part about it is (as my wife, a professional graphic designer, and I are fond of saying), this design beat out no fewer than 5 other concepts. Can you imagine the rage among the other designers whose concepts were rejected in favor of this craptacular illustration? Can you picture the look of incredulous consternation that would grace your features at being told that your years of study and hard work have been shown to be inadequate by a haggard jumble of shapes so randomly assembled as to evoke memories of grade school craft time?

Yeah...nice job, there. Time to put down the pen and pick up the six pack. Just make sure it's chilled first. Wouldn't want the Britons to think they were influencing western civilization. That's our job.

R.I.P. Mr. Wizard

2007-06-13T09:03:00.000-05:00

I'm going to set aside my characteristic rant, in order to honor the memory of a great man -- Mr. Don Herbert, better known as "Mr. Wizard" died yesterday at the age of 89.

While I never had cable TV as a kid, whenever I was at a friend's house watching TV, we regularly found ourselves checking out the super-interesting exploits on Nickelodeon's "Mr. Wizard's World." For those of you who aren't familiar with the show, Mr. Wizard would team up with a small child and perform science experiments using household chemicals. Normally, I'd say this premise would be an insurance company's worst nightmare, but having seen many episodes, I can only say that it was a super cool show.

Especially for those of us who happen to be, shall we say, more poindexdrous than others.

My favorite episode involved Mr. Wizard making soap bubbles filled with hydrogen. After mixing a few chemicals in a jar and topping it with a funnel, Mr. Wizard held a bubble wand over the opening, which (thanks to the marvel of the chemical reaction below) would spout hydrogen and fill the bubble. Once the bubble had swelled to the size of a softball, it would begin to rise to the ceiling, at which point Mr. Wizard's helper kid, armed with a lit candle tied to a yardstick, would burst the bubble and ignite the hydrogen, resulting in a spectacular fireball. What fun!

I wish Mr. Wizard had been my next door neighbor...provided my other next door neighbor was the local burn unit, of course.

At any rate, I'd like to have a moment of silence for Mr. Wizard - the man, the scientist, the legend.

Moment of silence concluded. On to the 21-hydrogen bubble salute! Yeeehhhaaaaaa!!!

Das ist NICHT gut!!

2007-06-12T09:14:00.000-05:00

Leave it to our Teutonic pals, the Germans. Evidently, after centuries of excellence in disciplines like automotive manufacturing, brewing, and leiderhosen design ("You go, mein herr! Lookin' uber-slammin'"), the Germans have decided to stomp to the tune of a different polka band where sausage making is concerned.

Butchers in Germany announced a brave new plan to reinvigorate demand for their national dish -- they're rolling out "Summer Bratwurst" in flavors such as maraschino cherry, kiwi, lemon, and -- get this -- aloe vera.

Yeah, you heard right...aloe vera. And I, for one, applaud them. Ah, those hot summer afternoons, basking in the warm sunshine on a white sand beach, becoming suddenly parched, reaching for my tall frosty mug of SUNBURN OINTMENT!! What could possibly be going through their minds? Aloe vera? As if there aren't enough other flavors from which to select your summer taste treat...why in the same of all things heilig did they pass right over peppermint...or peach...or green apple? Why jump right to ALOE VERA? What's next? A mosquito repellent-flavored pilsner?

You know, I suppose I'm missing the point, here. The greater issue is the supposed need to make certain foods taste like other foods. At the risk of offending the Madison Avenue boys, I'll state for the record that, when I reach for a bratwurst, I expect it to taste like a bratwurst. I don't find myself thinking, you know, this bratwurst is pretty good, but if it tasted like a salmon fillet with roasted peppers and shallots, that'd be even better!! No, wait -- can you you make it taste like aloe vera? That'd be AWESOME!!!

Stupid Germans. Stick to what you're good at...don't fall in line behind the Sunsweet folks, busy trying to inject more tantalizing fruit flavors into prunes. We all know it's idiocy! The only consumable where new and different flavors improves the product is vodka. Absolut got it right, and now everybody's clambering for second place.

For the Germans, a hundert moron punkte to all of you. For me, an Absolut Peppar bloody mary. And for anyone willing to give the aloe vera bratwurst a try, a little vacation from good taste. In more ways than one.

United Intelligence? Really?

2007-06-11T08:54:00.000-05:00

I’ve been away for a few days, at a conference in San Francisco, and during the flight, I was watching 30 Rock and I caught an ad that I honestly thought was a joke. Here’s a snippet:

“Are you focused? Patriotic? Looking for a new career where you can make a difference? Join the international clandestine services division at the CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY! A world of intelligence…a world of service.”

Did you catch that? Clandestine services - our government is actually recruiting people to be spies! On TV! On the in-flight channel of a cross-country United Airlines flight, no less! What could be the possible connection here? Since when did my ability to successfully navigate travelocity.com make me a candidate for the CIA? Let’s see…enjoyment of travel? No. Ability to use a computer? No. Delight in NBC comedies? Maybe, but probably not. The fact that I’m herded together with a captive audience of people who are poor, gullible, fatigued, stupid, and, in all likelihood, drunk?

Dingdingdingdingdingdingdingdingding! We have a winner!!

“Congratulations, Mr. Snurvitz! You’ve won an exciting new career in the rewarding world of espionage! Soon, you’ll be giving up everything you hold dear and leaving behind life as you know it to take on a new name, new family, and new possibilities of death and dismemberment! And, depending on how smart you are, you may even be executed for high treason in the country of our choice! What do you think”

“Unhhh…will ah still make mah flight t’Paducah?”

“High treason it is, then!!”

Here’s the problem with this recruiting strategy. Don’t gather the best people you can find and train them well. Get a whole gaggle of buttheads, encourage their dreams of becoming the next James Bond, and then march ‘em to their deaths, one after the other. Sooner or later, the folks doing the killing will run out of bullets, and you’ll still have a couple drooling cretins to send in with Kodak Funsaver cameras.

I’m not even going to bother giving out moron points. I’m playing sudoku so I don’t catch the stupid from the other passengers.

And next time, I’m flying Southwest Airlines.

Our sellers are freaking morons!!

2007-05-28T08:39:00.000-05:00

Ever bought a home from complete idiots? I have. Just now, in fact. Or, more accurately, just last week. I didn't know at the time that they were a pair of slack-jawed troglodytes, but I do now...well, at least I have a feeling at least one of them is.

How do I know this? Well, after spending a few days cleaning out my garage, I gathered much evidence on the subject, which I will share with you. Now, I should point out that I am by no means a super handyman, but I can safely say that I know enough about basic home improvement to know that the previous owners of the house had no understanding on the subject at all. Take a look below, and you'll agree.

EXHIBIT A: BOTCHED PHONE JACK
Here's a nifty little job...need a phone jack in your garage? No problem. Just cut a ridiculously rough hole in your wall, pull a little Cat3 cable through, wire the jack, and then jam the whole business back into the wall. By no means should you bother to install a box or even atttempt to attach the wallplate to the wall -- just leave it hanging there. After all, when you unplug the phone from the jack, it'll probably pull the plate out of the wall, anyway, so save yourself the trouble and just let it all hang out. Lazy dorks.

EXHIBIT B: HACK-JOB SHELF
Here's a nice one. You're looking at the horizontal supports on a big ol' shelf. Take note -- rather than taking a few seconds to find a stud (more on that later), the buttheads whipped out the ol' keyhole saw and cut into the drywall in order to screw the supports to the studs INSIDE the walls. That's some smarteriffic thinkifying there, Cletus. Good luck next week when you cram for the finals in refrigerator college. Given that your new digs are probably some Unibomber-inspired corrugated steel topped shed, you're more likely to be struck by lightning than you are to get a passing grade on that test.

EXHIBIT C: SUPPORTLESS SHELF SUPPORT
Ah, yes...as if the last exhibit wasn't enough, here's a second one on the subject of the ginormous garage shelf. Take a gander at the above photo. Notice anything interesting? How about the shelf support? Interesting, interesting...you know, normally, when one attaches a board underneath the middle of a shelf, the rigidity of the board provides more stability to the shelf. That is, ONLY WHEN THE BOARD HASN'T ALREADY BEEN CUT!!! *sigh* Seriously, folks...this isn't even worthy of a Darwin Award. Don't let that stop you from flinging your feces in protest, though.

EXHIBIT D: WHO NEEDS A STUDFINDER?
Here's my personal favorite. See all the little holes in a neat little line? Well, this, as it turns out, was our seller's preferred method of locating a stud. Step 1: Guess where the stud is. Step 2: Whip out the drill and drill a hole. Step 3: If you don't hit the stud, move half an inch to the left. Step 4: Repeat steps 2 and 3 until you find the stud. Color me antagonistic, here, but I think this pretty much closes the case on this neanderthal pair. What's next? Am I going to open up the furnace someday, only to find the remains of a little campfire, due to the fact that the dolts couldn't figure out how to turn the gas valve? Bah.

And, believe it or not, there's more. There will ALWAYS be more. The only question is, when will I discover it.

A double-sized Pan Galactic Moron Point for each of our sellers.

Stupid, STUPID Phone Company!!

2007-05-15T08:47:00.000-05:00

Bah! I HATE utility companies!!

Bad customer service! High prices! No concern for quality! This is what happens when private firms have no competition! Idiots! All of them!

Oh -- do you work for ComEd or AT&T? Have I given offense? Yeah, well, I meant every word of it. You're an idiot, too. Super double bonus moron points to you, your family, your mailman, your pet fish, and, oh, I don't know...your white picket fence, too. So there.

My wrath is especially strong on this topic, given the crap Em and I slogged through to get basic utilities hooked up at our new house. We did everything we could to keep things moving, and still we got screwed. Can I get an Amen? Good. Here's the situation:

A week in advance of our move, Em called ComEd and AT&T and transferred our accounts for electricity, phone, satellite TV, and DSL at our new place. Everything seemed okay, and the customer service people were friendly and helpful (that should have tipped us off right away that something was wrong). We got a new phone number, we received a new DSL modem, and even scheduled a date for satellite TV installation. However, given our distrust of utility companies, Em called ComEd a day before the move to confirm that everything was kosher. It was not.

ComEd had no record of our previous call, nor did they know we were moving. They had not transferred our service, and, had we not called, we would be sitting in a dark house, feasting on graham crackers warmed over votive candles. Luckily, Em managed to get things on track again, and we were good to go...for the moment.

The next day, we moved in, only to find we had no dial tone. I called AT&T and got a technician who assured me that service had been completed. I assured him this was not the case. He advised me the problem was probably with the wiring in my home. Having tested the lines myself, I assured him this was a load of donkey muffins and asked him to test the line, which he did. The test came back negative (surprise, surprise, Ma Bell!). He apologized for the inconvenience and told me he would send out someone to fix the problem by 8pm on Sunday evening.

At 3pm on Sunday, I called again (based on our experience with ComEd, this seemed the prudent move). The technician told me that my previous call was in the system and they still anticipated the problem to be resolved by 8pm. Flash forward to 7:59pm on Sunday -- no dial tone. 8:00 ticks over, then 8:01...still no dial tone. Grrrrrr.

While I stomped to the backyard and began pulling nails out of our deck with my teeth, Emily called AT&T to raise Cain. The person she spoke with was helpful, knowledgeable, friendly, and courteous (a rare gem). She apologized for the inconvenience and informed Em and we would be receiving a credit for missing their deadline. Then she said that they would have the matter resolved by 8pm on Monday. Finally, she completed the call with the standard boilerplate: "Thank you for calling AT&T. If you wish to check the status of your ticket, please visit www.att.com.

News flash, Francine -- if we don't have a dial tone, we don't have DSL!! And I'm not driving to Starbucks to confirm that you're not doing your job! Grrrr...maybe she wasn't as much of a gem as I thought. Still, we finally got phone service by noon on Monday, and, lucky for them, the DSL worked perfectly, right out of the box.

I still hate them, though. Not only were we out of communication with the civilized world for a weekend, now, I have to go replace the nails in my deck.

It's going to wreak havoc on my braces. Stupid AT&T.

Hope you look good in stripes, Paris!

2007-05-08T14:23:00.000-05:00

Well, it's official. Paris Hilton is heading to jail.

As a designated representative of educated people everywhere, I'd like to extend a big pat on the back to the American justice system. Way to go, you magnificent "Law and Order" types! Even though you nailed me for going through a railroad crossing (for which I had to pay a fine and do community service), even though you routinely catch me speeding and belittle me in front of my wife and daughter, I salute you! Thanks for throwing that mindless dollar-endowed twit in the slammer!

Further, if I may offer a minor criticism, there are only two problems with the current situation: (1) she's not going away for the right reasons, and (2) she's not going away forever.

Allow me to expound. On the first point, should Paris be put away for driving with a suspended license? Well, maybe, but what she REALLY needs to be punished for is her self-absorbed, idiotic grandstanding as if she fell out of her bed (or, in her case, someone else's bed) and cured cancer. Let's face facts -- as Americans, we typically idolize the rich and famous, but usually, we reserve our accolades for those individuals who are rich and famous for doing something. Steven Spielberg, Oprah Winfrey, Lance Armstrong -- they're all rich because of their efforts. Paris Hilton is rich because she was born with a silver room key in her mouth.

On to the second issue. Putting aside my earlier praise of American jurisprudence, I feel I must ask why, WHY did the judge only put this dope away for 45 days, when, in many other civilized societies, she would be unceremoniously booted into the woods with a scarlet "A" tattooed across her chest. 45 days? Seriously? I know we need to let the punishment fit the crime, but one would think that all the crud we've had to put up with over the years would merit at least a simple caning. Am I right?

And, to top it all off, this teary-eyed little motel maven actually had the stones to claim she didn't deserve such treatment. On this point, I feel I must agree. She deserves far, FAR worse, and if she had the brains of a common towel warmer, she'd take her slap on the wrist and sign up for the next "Hot bod" contest at Brentwood minimum security, in the hopes of making a few friends before she gets beaten to a pulp by her new cellmate, Greta "Skullcrusher" Dufresne.

Do you REALLY want what you deserve, Paris? Be careful what you ask for...

Buy the d*** gas, already!

2007-05-07T08:22:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wish the common idiots infesting this planet understood basic economics.

Or, if not, I wish that they lacked the ability to write. I just received (for the third year in a row) an email about the "Great American Gas Out." And, for the third year in a row, I am both livid and sick that the average human is as stupid as he/she appears to be.

For the uninitiated, the "Great American Gas Out" (hereafter referred to as "GAGO"), is an email started by a person so dang dumb that they make houseplants look like Nobel laureates. The email encourages people to refrain from purchasing gasoline on a single day (in this case, May 15, 2007), on the argument that gas companies will lose so much money that they will have to lower the street prices. The most recent iteration of this foolishness cites the success of last year's GAGO for the drop in prices around the same time.

Here's the problem -- GASOLINE IS A COMMODITY PRODUCT WHOSE PRICE IS DETERMINED BY SUPPLY AND DEMAND!! Listen well, you hapless dolts - the only way gas companies will lose money is if the demand for gasoline drops PERMANENTLY! Get it? I hate to break it to you, but the world (and especially, this country) runs on gasoline, so it doesn't matter if every single person chose not to buy gas on May 15 -- you're just going to fill up before or after that date. You are as much of a gas addict as the rest of us, and you know it. All you're doing when you participate in this stupid hoax is to make yourself feel like you're sticking it to Big Oil. In fact, Big Oil neither notices nor cares. They've made their money before the gas even gets to the pumps, so they really don't care about your pointless little crusade.

Now, just to set things straight, this rant does not apply to most of the people who forward this note...I know lots of people who did, and some of them are close friends and relatives. Put simply, I know why you send it out...when gas prices go up, we all look for someone to blame. That's normal, and nothing to be ashamed of. Then, when some ignorant person sleazes his way into your inbox, claiming to have an curative balm for your woes, we believe whatever he tells us, because we want to believe it. We want to feel as though there's something we can do that won't cause us to do without. We want an easy solution. Unfortunately, in the words of my Kellogg finance prof, "There's no such thing as a free lunch."

This rant is for all those people who, in addition to merely forwarding the email, seek to convince me of the merits of the campaign. I don't care how intelligently this message is worded, or how plausible it sounds. Get an economics 101 textbook and read the first chapter, then try to convince me that GAGO emails are anything other than prime virtual birdcage liner!

So, here's the deal...you stop trying to tell me that this GAGO thing works, and I'll choose someone else to vilify in my blog. If you hate high gas prices and you really want Big Oil to lose money (and I, for one, would applaud the effort), stop driving! Buy a good pair of walking shoes (or a bike, horse, mule, camel, etc.) and leave the car in the driveway. Prove to the oil giants that they don't rule your lives! In other words, show some backbone and stand up for your principles, already! Do that, and you are free to say whatever you like. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut. You're wasting both my time and my hard drive space.

FREEEEEDOMMMMMM!!!

2007-05-04T15:00:00.000-05:00

That's right, folks! I'm free! Just like William Wallace (from whom my nifty post title comes)! That's a nice comparison, by the way. We both like swords, we both fight the English, but while Wallace had to die to be free, I merely had to quit my job. It's a good feeling. No longer will I be locked in the clutches of a tyrannical British dictator (otherwise known as BP). Granted, I may have traded one bag of troubles for another, but hey, at least I'm getting more money. That's gotta count for something, right?

Where am I headed, you ask? Well, in case you haven't read my wife's blog, on May 28 I start my new job at Google! Yeah! Awesome! Stock options all around!!

As you can tell, I'm pretty happy today. Don't worry -- TinMan Dan returns tomorrow with more acidic ranting...but for today, I'm on break.

OMG! Do you think he LIKES ME-likes me?

2007-04-06T08:11:00.000-05:00

I read this morning that a pair of diaries are expected to fetch $100,000 at auction. Not a big deal, except when you consider that that diaries were written (and I use that term in its loosest possible sense) by Anna Nicole Smith. In purple and green Hallmark notebooks. With writing on the front that reads, "This Diary Belongs to Vickie Smith - DO NOT READ."

Amazing. I wonder if the diary of Anne Frank would've brought home that much cash if it were auctioned off today.

To get the full thrust of my argument, let me post some excerpts from these literary tomes:

"O my Gosh!! I'm gonna go to San Antonio to do photo shoot...I'm so excited!! I can't believe this. This could be it! [smiley face smiley face smiley face]"

"I'm so happy [my new clothes] look great! I hope it empresses Paul Marsiano."

"Howard has been buying me som jewelry but he call me 15 or 20 times a day it drives me crazy."

"I don't no what to do about Paul hes strange guy."

Nice typos. At least Anne Frank was hiding for her life. What the heck do you have to be afraid of - an empty box of Twinkies?

Alright, that was a low blow, but it really aggravates me when our society places such a high value on useless objects like this. Doubtless the news media will claim that the diaries will give us a window into Anna Nicole's inner pain. Yeah. Right. As if we need a diary to tell us this chick was messed up. The only additional insight to be gained is HOW messed up she really was.

Is that worth a hundred grand? Say it with me, folks -- NO.

And I...did more drugs than yoooouuuuuu...

2007-04-06T07:40:00.000-05:00

So, it's official! A judge in California has granted Whitney Houston custody of her child.

Wow.

You know, that had to be a tough decision. "Hmmm...do I give the kid to the delusional coke fiend, or the drunk driving-wife beater? That's a tricky one. Let's consult the ol' Magic 8 Ball for some wisdom, shall we?"

Am I the only one who thinks there should have been a third option? Seriously -- I don't care if the kid is in fact the legitimate spawn of Bobby and Whitney (and, given Bobby Brown's tendencies, I consider this to be highly questionable)...why in the world would you place a child in that kind of household? "Sorry I'm late for school, Principal Harrison...I was dragging my mom out of the gutter after she OD'd on heroin and drain cleaner, and I missed the bus."

I gotta get a job as the principal in THAT school...I'd have blog entries galore!

Now, I suppose I should mention that the offspring in question is 14. Maybe the judge felt that, by this time, the damage had been done. "That's it -- game over, sweetheart! Sorry your childhood was so messed up by these freaked-out egomaniacs...best of luck in the future. Oh, and by the way, if you want one, I suggest you change your name. Introducing yourself as "Bobbi Brown" is definitely the wrong way to go, unless you want to be standing in front of me for your own offenses."

Ah, well. There's a silver lining of irony to all this, of course. The final twist is that what few ducats remain in the ever-dwindling collective Bobby/Whitney fortune will go directly into the coffers of the veritable army of therapists whose sole purpose in life will be to reverse the horrific damage they inflicted upon the poor kid since birth. Good luck with that one, guys.

They've got a better shot at getting Whitney to admit she has a drug problem.

Hunter who? Part 2

2007-04-05T11:26:00.000-05:00

Well, Brooke had class again last night, and came into the office with a fresh new "Hunter" story. Granted, it wasn't as good as the last one, but it paints a much better picture about our friend, the Chicago linebacker.

Brooke walked into class wearing her newly-acquired Hunter Hillenmeyer Bears jersey (stealthily concealed underneath a "Canada" hoodie (I guess having the class regard her as a Canadian was better than having them think of her as a dumb blonde). Feel free to get angry, Canadian friends...we all know the stigma's pretty well an accepted fact now. One needs only to watch "Strange Brew" for evidence of that.

Anyway, she was going to unveil her Bears jersey to the class, but upon speaking to Hunter, he was evidentally so apologetic about the incident (given Brooke told him how much grief she was getting about it), and he was so genuinely understanding and humble (considering Brooke pretty much kicked his ego to the ground and stomped on it not one week previously), she decided she'd keep the Canada hoodie on.

Sing along, now:

Oh, Canada...

You suck much more than us
True dweebs and tools,
Don't try to raise a fuss...

You all know that we
Count much more than thee
In the grand scheme of the earth...

But thanks to the beer,
One thing is quite clear
That you exceed us in girth...

Please keep your land
Distant from me...
Oh, Canada
We're what you wish you could be...
Oh, Canada
We're what you wish you could be!!

For those of you who are wondering, yes, I did divert off the main point of this post in a shameless attempt to share my satiric version of "Oh, Canada". But then, that's my choice. Enjoy!

Hunter who?

2007-04-04T08:14:00.000-05:00

I'm going to divert from my normal angry blog and relate a story that was too good to keep to myself. Trust me. You're going to love this one.

A few days ago, my friend Brooke came to my cube and told me about her evening. Brooke is in the part-time masters program at Kellogg, and she just started a new class the previous evening. Typically, the first night of class involves reviewing the syllabus, setting course goals, and allowing all the students to introduce themselves. Each of the students will say their name and their employer and, sometimes, what they hope to get out of the class.

Well, Brooke was in the middle of this process when, in the midst of the ordinary "My name's Bill, and I work for Motorola" one student said, "My name's Hunter, and I work for the Bears." Upon hearing this, Brooke thought, "Wow...maybe this guy's a sports agent, or perhaps he works in their marketing or PR department." It intrigued her enough to make a point to speak to him at break about it.

Break time arrived, and Brooke swiveled her chair around, introduced herself to Hunter, and asked him what he did for the Bears organization. Immediately, all conversation in the room ceased, and twenty heads turned to face her. In the midst of this stunned silence, Hunter replied, "I...play for the Bears." Oops...ummm...awk-ward!

Does this deter Brooke? It does not! Brooke is a strong, fun, extroverted person who does not get sidelined by a minor social faux pax such as this one. She immediately retorts, "Well, you must not be that good, because I've never heard of you!" Hunter replies, "I started in the Super Bowl."

That's right, folks -- Hunter Hillenmeyer (for those of you who haven't guessed it), starting linebacker for the Chicago Bears, is getting his MBA from Kellogg.

Now, just to level the playing field (pun intended), let me just add that if I had been in Brooke's shoes, the other members of the class would have immediately revoked my Guy Card. However, Brooke, being tall and blond, easily gets away with it. Equity? I think not.

As a postscript, I'll just add that Brooke recently purchased a Hunter Hillenmeyer Bears jersey, and she's planning on wearing it to class tonight. Tune in tomorrow to find out the result.

Rollin' Rollin' Rollin'

2007-03-14T10:17:00.000-05:00

Recently, while on an errand, I was pulling out of my parking spot at a store, when this tiny woman (roughly three apples tall) driving this massive SUV (roughly three apple orchards large) takes a wide left turn and blocks me in. Not in my parking space, mind you -- she blocked me in the PARKING LOT. Her suburban levithan taking up both lanes, she proceeds to lay on the horn, indicating in perfect Chicago fashion, that she desires that I proceed.

Only I cannot proceed. I must sit and wait. I suppose I could have driven underneath her vehicle (the ground clearance was probably greater than the height of my Buick), but I thought that would be presumptious. Instead, I gave her a look that said, "Why are you honking at me? Can you not see that I am unable to move? Please back up and try again." However, I should add that this look is often mistranslated as, "Look at that guy with a weasel on his head! Isn't that strange?" The two looks are very similar.

She must have translated correctly, because she backed up and turned again, this time providing me the room to exit. Then she gave me the finger. Perhaps she used to wear a weasel on her head.

What is it about SUVs that attract people like this? Why are most of the SUV drivers I encounter small enough to fit into the glove compartment? And, while I'm on the subject, why to they develop worse attitudes than Sean Penn with a toothache once they get behind the wheel? I'll admit, I'm not the nicest guy when people get in my way, but SUV drivers must believe that everyone is in their way, given their behavior.

I used to want an SUV (not a big one -- a Nissan XTerra, to be precise), but now I really don't. I don't want to be grouped in with this lot. What a bunch of jerks!

Now, if you read my previous entry, I'm sure you're thinking that I hate short people. Let me put your fears to rest. I don't hate short people...being 6'6", most of the world would be short, from my perspective. Rather, what I hate are STUPID people, and those individuals chronicled in yesterday's and today's blog entries are merely one subset of stupid people -- they are stupid short people. Clear? Good.

Tune in later, and I'll rant about stupid southern people...after a week in Alabama, I've got LOTS of material on that.

Stupid SHORT People Shouldn't Fly

2007-03-12T11:49:00.000-05:00

Well, after returning from our wonderful holiday in Gulf Shores, AL, I had an experience that I felt deserved a blog entry. And, since the experience that drew my ire took place within a plane (big surprise, huh), I thought a follow-up to my initial entry was most fitting.

Now, then. Read the title, morons!! If you happen to be short and stupid and you fly (and, to be sure, you probably aren't, if you're able to read this), I've got a commandment for you: OPEN YOUR EYES AND CONSIDER OTHERS AROUND YOU!! Here's why.

Sunday afternoon, Emily and I boarded a tiny jet (two seats on one side, one on the other) to fly from Pensacola to Chicago. I plunked down in the single seat behind a gray-haired, polo-attired SHORT guy, and promptly stowed my bag beneath the seat. This action had the effect of reducing the distance between my knees and the seat back to roughly the thickness of cigarette paper. No sooner did the landing gear leave the runway when this sawed-off little jerk hit the recline button on his seat, eliminating any lap room I had left, and causing kneecap-shaped indentations into the seat back.

Did I scream in pain? No. I did not. You see, I've dealt with little dorks like this before. Instead of sliding my legs out into the aisle (risking being stomped on by other passengers or being flattened by the drink cart), I moved my legs to be directly behind where I judged this guy's lumbar vertebre to be, and slowly exerted increasing pressure.

He responded by jostling around in his seat, attempting to find a more comfortable position. When none could be found, he hit the recline button again and tried to push the seat back even further. No luck there. All the while, I pushed my knees as hard as I could into this runt's back, hopefully making the two-hour flight as uncomfortable for him as he was making it for me. Read my text, you sawed-off little twerps...just TRY to crush my knees with your seat -- I promise you I will destroy your ability to walk, stand, sit, or lie down with any ease. Cause me even the slightest amount of knee discomfort, and I promise you a retribution that is second only to the one described in St. John's Revelation! I've had it, and I'm officially putting you all on notice!

Am I being childish? Maybe, but it's time to wake these idiots up! I refuse to suffer while a little dope whose legs barely extend past the end of his seat tries to give himself even more room (that he doesn't need) at the expense of my surplus legroom (which I don't have), thus attracting my rage (which, if you've been reading this blog, I have lots of).

There. Consider that fair warning. Now, if you don't mind, there are a couple big guys who are here to drag me off to anger management class.

Side Effects? Run Away! Run Away!

2007-02-22T14:10:00.000-06:00

Well, it appears that, according to my Dilbert desk calendar, it's been ten days since I last shared my pseudo-wisdom with my fans. Both of you. But do not despair, you dedicated few -- I'm back...ready to deliver my caustic words, to cause annoyance and anger among the dumbest tenth of the population (that is, assuming they can read...which takes a leap of faith). I should note that the cause of my delay was not a lack of idiots in the world (they breed quicker than bunnies on viagra). Rather, I've simply been busy.

That's right -- I actually have a life outside of cyberspace. And a family. And even a job that doesn't require me to wear a nametag. I'm livin' the American dream!

Anyway, I was watching TV a few nights ago, and saw a nifty little ad for an over-the-counter laxative. Thirty seconds later, I was back to watching Law and Order, but it struck me that the majority of the commercial's length was dedicated to providing an exhaustive list of side effects that may be experienced by users of the drug.

Seriously. I think the narrator barely had time to say the brand name before he was forced to launch into the possible down side of taking his advice.

But that's not even the worst part of it -- the list of side effects wasn't just long; it contained maladies that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Headaches. Drowsiness. Dizziness. Incontinence. Canker sores. Diarrhea. Paper cuts. Backaches. Serious diarrhea. Chapped lips. Ingrown toenails. Explosive diarrhea. Uncontrollable fatigue. High mortgage payments. Disobediant children. Flat tires. Irritating waiters. Delayed flights. Michael Jackson. Solar flares. Rap music...

I know the pharmaceutical companies are just covering their butts, but it's getting to the point where, no matter how bad I'm feeling, I'd pass on even the perfect drug, simply for reason of the side effects! "Yeah, honey, this knife in my back sure does suck, but if I avoid the gauze bandages, at least I know I won't spontaneously combust! We don't want that!"

Just simplify matters, for crying out loud! Give the name of the drug, tell us what it does, and then inform us that we're on our own. Hopefully, the worst side effects will hit the dumbest customers, who either won't survive, or won't know how to complain. Problem solved.