You snooze you win.

Ah, the bored joy of a day off. I strongly recommend it. Yes, you're going to end up feeling like you wasted the day screwing around. Yes, there will be emails a-plenty waiting for you Monday morning. Nonetheless, it is still worth it. I also recommend planning days off and vacation ahead of time. Having something to look forward to can apparently make a difference.

I've noticed that "stressed" has become the characteristic by which people define me. Not my close friends (while I'm sure many would not hesitate to call me such, it's not the alpha/omega), but the various acquaintances, family members, and guest stars that fill in the gaps in the warp and woof of my interpersonal fabric. The small talk they offer when forced to talk to me reveals that the only thing they know about me is that I have a stressful job. That roughly translates to "wuss" right?

So what to do about this? Anything? Should I care?

Step 1: more vacation. Screw this coal miner crap.

Step 2: invent an interesting hobby and tell everyone about it. That way, when these poor, kind people are stuck talking to me, they can ask "so, how's the ostrich farm?" or "hey, I saw something on snowmobiles yesterday. You still drag race them?".

I suppose I could actually start an interesting hobby but that don't hardly sound like me.

It's killing me.

I've been trying very, very hard not to like this song. It's just not working. Now, from my standpoint you have two choices when it comes to contemporary rock bands that might be gay and definitely wear makeup: wacko art students Franz Ferdinand or Las Vegas wusses The Killers. The main difference between these two bands is that Franz Ferdinand is good. Imagine my embarrassment and surprise, then, when I find myself declaring to other motorists that I'm Mr. Brightside.

We get it.

I move we censor bagpipes. Like touchdown celebrations, the use of the once understandable, even appropriate, piping had become uncontained, unbridled in its fervor. I refer in particular to the sound of bagpipes being used in cinema and television as the theme for the beautiful-warlike-melancholy-male. It is as if the instrument can only play mournful war ballads.

The sound is now used as a convenient way to elicit the aforementioned Braveheart emotion. Why bother writing decent dialogue or presenting moving imagery when Hamish McHamish can set his bag to "archetype" and bring on the tears for a lot less capital?

The problem is that this doesn't work. Despite the best efforts of the entertainment industry, we haven't yet become Pavloved enough to paint ourselves blue every time some red-haired cannibal breathes into a Hoover. So stop it. Enough already. Save it for something actually Scottish.

Has those family shares well-protected.

You know what happened before The Great Escape? Blur hung out with a bunch of rich people, and it really pissed them off.

Turbo

I've started a new blog for my GT4 pics.

In name alone.

Ok, Spring. Let's get with the program here. Tell Jack Frost he's had enough fun at our expense and make with the decent weather. It's not that I'm a big outdoors guy, like I'm waiting to get back to jetskiing or anything like that. I'm just ready to retire the snowbrush.

I sat down and mapped out my calendar of time off the other day. All these Universal Orlando "take back your vacation" commercials must be getting to me.

And that's all I've got for you today.

Before picking up GT4, I asked Her Worshipfulness a rhetorical question: Just who do they think is going to take pictures of their digital cars and share them with people? Her reply: "People like you, Alex. People just like you."

Carlsberg Years

Can anyone explain to me why Bode Miller was the USA Today cover story today? I mean aside from the fact that USA Today sucks.

Now, I'm a fan of competitive skiing. Any time it appears on my TV, my remote can be found lying on the floor behind my shortly after. One might think that watching people ski the exact same run over and over, missing each other's times by imperceptible fractions of seconds, would be boring. Not to this guy. Imagine my surprise when I see Bode Miller on the front page. Cool, right? But... skiing? That's the big news today? Aren't we engaged in two different wars?

I watched Snatch last night, too.

Well, I was going to post about the fact that Oliver Wood is played by a guy named Biggerstaff, but Garv saved you all.


1. which cartoon character from our youth are you most similar to, and which would you prefer to be most like?


Most similar to: First base, Bugs Bunny. Now, I know that probably sounds self-important, picking major character like that, but here's the deal. My smart-ass attitude gets me in trouble and I have a propensity for getting lost.

Want to be: Tigra. Mental powers, can teleport, has awesome bolo thing, and banging Cheetara. Ho!!!


2. let's say you write the next "great american novel". who would you most like to write glowing reviews for the dust jacket?

The concept of the great American novel is a complicated one, worthy of its own post, so I'll answer the question you asked. Elizabeth Cook, author of Achilles. Her book is as close to perfect as I can imagine, and I can imagine quite a bit.


3. what's your favorite curse word? (okay, that is a james lipton one, but it's still a good question.)

I like me some 'hell', certainly, but I'd have to say 'Jesus'. Gets the freaks all riled up.



4. a genie appears but can only grant three food wishes. what are your perfect breakfast, lunch, and dinner menus?

Breakfast: pancakes w/ real maple syrup, bacon. OJ, coffee.

Lunch: bread, olives, cheese. Coca-cola.

Dinner: Spaghetti and meat sauce. Salad. Bread. Wine.



5. what is one thing about you that you have never admitted on B A Start?

My last name.

Start training now.

The First Annual Buffalo Winter Driving Skills Competition

Day 1: Parking

• Parallel park a 1992 Buick Century between two SUV's on the side of the road that should have been plowed before the sides switched but wasn't. Points awarded for time, proximity to curb, and lack of vehicle damage.
  
• Park a sedan in an unplowed driveway between two houses. Demerits for hitting either house or not pulling far enough up.
• Park on the road in such a way that a passing plow will not hit you, but a woman in heels can get out of the passenger side door without sliding under the vehicle. (Woman to be provided by event manager.)
• Elmwood Village, 5 am. No one has shoveled. Find a spot that isn't in front of someone's driveway.
  

Day 2: Time trials

• Drive down Main Street from Delevan to Allen in under ten minutes. Automatic disqualification if driver hits a pothole or if the "Low Trac" idiot light comes on at any time. Good luck.
• The 33 from the198 to Genesee. Without windshield wiper fluid.

Day 3: Special events

• You have a fifteen minute drive and a cold car. Find the balance between interior temperature and visibility due to the fog level of the windshield. Judged by an anemic woman with no gloves who hasn't had lunch.
  
• Navigate Gates Circle safely. The circle will be filled with cars driven by people on cellphones, the elderly, and people who only brushed the snow off the driver's side windshield.
• Take a left out of Panos at 1pm on Saturday. Points awarded for least number of people dead.

No four wheel / all wheel drive vehicles allowed. Extra points distributed based on amount of rust on your vehicle -- 1 point per event per square inch. Three extra points per event if you compete with your girlfriend in the car.

On antibiotics

God damn it.

The first day with some sun and I'm stuck inside, waiting for Mr. Fix-It to swing down and check out the water dripping from the window in the bathroom.

When stepping outside is synonymous with brutal cold and frustrating driving, the scope of potential activities narrow dramatically. One would think this would cause an up-swing in the world of blogs, but no. We're all starting to crack, and our blogs reflect it. My day-to-post ratio has dropped substantially, even with last weekend's marathon. Over at webshite, Greg is happy to let us know he's got nothing going on. At outgrabes, boredom is tune of the day. Swish is on sabbatical, and DHKA (while not a blog) has been silent since the cold began.

And here it is, a sunny day with melting snow and the promise of a decent drive, and I'm doing the same thing I've done for weeks. Sit inside and screw around.

Side-note: Water damage follows me around. My childhood home, my college dormroom, my two previous apartments, and now my current living sitcheeation. I think water's out to get me.

Under direct order

I have government issues. I come from a town where we voted by raising our hands in town meeting and state in which there are no taxes and no services. I now live in a state where they make laws as if the goal of human existence was to cover all the paper in the world with esoterica. If the current year was 1995, I'd say I experienced culture shock, but the proliferation of the internet has made any accepted turn of phrase passe in nano-seconds, and I wouldn't want to lose my credibility.

Here's the problem. I don't trust the government, and I don't trust the people. For example, I'm not a big fan of the jury system, since it takes people who don't necessarily know anything about the law and puts them in charge of implementing it. I also don't think the judge should make all of the decisions, since people have biases and mortgages.

Let's talk about public school curricula. (No, wait! Keep reading! I promise, it won't be too bad. If you get bored, just think about how 'curricula' reminds you of Bunnicula.) Who should decide whether or not to teach about evolution? Now, the federal govt coming down and telling the town and city govts what to do gets my blood warm, but my guess is that the number of school districts that want not to / do not teach evolution is getting up there, and this needs to be stopped by people who have brains.

This is my pain. I don't trust big central govt not to exploit the hell out of everything and I don't trust the citizens to make educated decisions.

So what do I do about it? Like any self-respecting American under 37, I blog about it. Completely ineffectual, but it does feel so very, very good. I mean, to the untrained eye it's almost like I'm writing a respectable article about a pressing issue, when in fact I'm vaguely bitching about whatever's on my mind without being restrained by having to have a good point or any recommendations. No editor needed, I'll publish whatever the fuck I want, thank you. This format rocks.

Sun 12:38

Three day weekend, hour 52.

I think we've learned just what I do when I've got free time: videogames and drinking.

Last night, I judged a bake-off. After ten desserts, three cups of coffee, and a half-dozen cigarettes, I felt like a 2nd grader on Halloween. I'm still a little spazzed out.

Sat 5:46

Three day weekend, hour 36.

I have a confession to make. Last night, a friend told me about a website which has broadened the concept of those digital pet things. Remember those? Well, here's how the conversation went:

Mike: "So, yeah. You feed 'em and clean 'em and all that.

Alex: "Uh-huh."

Mike: "But they've made a whole world for them, all these different islands."

Alex: "Yeah. Uh-huh."

Mike: "And they can fight each other."

Alex: "Oh, your neopet is going DOWN, BITCH!"


Never mind my deep-seated psychological problems related to competition for now. I went and set myself up a Neopet today. Here's the deal. It's a whole bunch of flash games you play to get points to buy stuff for your pet. Like minesweeper and poker and stuff, but in this loose configuration of locales and with Wuzzle-looking beasties. I guess it's like any MMORPG, but without the monthly charge.

So yeah. I hope nobody finds out.

Sat 12:40

Three day weekend, hour 28.

Apparently Saturday morning at 11 is peak Grandma-calling hours. Two grandmothers before noon, one discussing a past visit, the other scheduling an upcoming one. The latter is my grandmother, the Italian lady from the Bronx who has lived in VT for fifty years and misses real Italian food. I've got a feeling Buffalo has more to offer in that regard than Burlington.

Sat 8:15

Three day weekend, hour 24.

My plan had been to sleep in, but the combination of the upstairs neighbor clomping around at 6 and the incessent squeaking of the radiators put that concept to bed. I got up and went down to the basement so I could stare in impotence at the offending pipes, apparently under the impression I would have been able to diagnose the issue and then change the universal properties of metal with my bare hands. "What's he looking for, a big ON/OFF switch?"

Fri 6:27

Three day weekend, hour eleven.

Aside from about an hour and a half of eating excellent lunch, enjoying conversation, and answering the blasted phone, all I've done since the last post is play PS2 games.

You see, something in my head changed today. A little backstory - I have become more and more voracious for new titles, since when I get a game I either play it all the way through or stop when the fun-to-difficulty ratio swings too far to the right. This leaves me with a stack of games that I have had enough of. Every once in a while I go back and mess around a bit, but for the most part they're as useful to me as used Kleenex brand facial tissues. One of the titles that was set aside for difficulty issues is Gran Turismo 3. I pulled it back out a few days ago, and today I found that I could get past the parts that gave me trouble before. So now, with these newfound racing skills, I was unable to stop. The trophies and prize cars kept rolling in, and before I knew it, it was 6.

Now I go drink.

Fri 1:27

Three day weekend, hour six.

Only in Buffalo does it take three stops to buy lunch.

At the recommendation of a German scientist, the fraulein and I went in search of a deli which is purported to have the best bratwurst in town. All I had to go on was a general location (Grant and Amherst) and a single syllable: "spaaaaah". Right when we had given up and started to head home, there on the right appeared Spar's. In we go to find on display all manner of german meat products, including the promised bratwurst.

After a swing by Globe Market for bread and Wilson Farms for mustard, we're go for lunch. I was tempted to run out to Premier to get some weird German beer, but the two Molsons left over from last night's sixer will do. I'll keep you posted.

Fri 11:35

Three-day weekend, hour three.

Just got back from a supply run. Every time I take a day off I end up at a store of some kind, and it always weirds me out. The only men at a store on a weekday are retired or gay, and there stands Alex, living out the part of the dazed young married guy to an absolute T.

Fri 9:16

Three day weekend, hour one.

Watched the first few minutes of Lock Stock, followed by Napoleon Dynamite and Shaun of the Dead last night, both of which had striking similarities to my own life. Well, to be fair the stuff in Napoleon just reminded me of the eighties (those jumpropes!) and general geekiness. Shaun on the other hand... yikes. We all know that if you want a good flick, just add zombies, but the real success of this movie is in its accurate portrayal of the fading late youth of people raised on TV, right down to the ninja poster. AND the videogame they play throughout is Timesplitters 2, an all-time favorite which is quite appropriate, as there is much, much zombie decapitiation and the developers are English. My question is, where is this fictional setting in which people can still smoke in bars?

Do you like dags?

Well this is it. I took a day off. So, what do I do with this three-day weekend? I went to see the inlaws last weekend, so the demon Obligation is snoozing peacefully. I got my haircut last weekend. Hmmm... I predict a trip to the grocery store, about half an hour of reading, a mere few hours of videogame playing, several walks, forty-five minutes of writing, eight hours of drinking, two movies, two hours of Carnevale. And you wonder why I haven't been posting much recently.

I submit this for your consideration. Will this be informative, interesting, or good? No. Will I be watching it? Yes. Now, there's no damn mystery to dragons. There are dino bones all over the place, big lizard looking things. Never understood why there has any been any doubt. Perhaps this show will straighten a few things out for me. More likely it will tell me the poignant tale of young George who lives in peace on the Isle of Wight with his dearest mommy dragon until a bigger dragon comes to mess with them. Now and then the Book of Kells will be displayed. Several white guys will talk. I will quickly grow tired of ads for the Chevy Cobalt.

Go check Royal Toybox. Right out loud.

It's Tine.

Two horns way up for Constantine. Everything I wanted, nothing I didn't. I was introduced to the character in the works of Neil Gaiman, in which he makes a few appearances, and everything I inferred about his mysterious past was proved by a little internet research to be completely incorrect, so I don't get to go all geek on anybody. (Too many commas? You think so? )

Riddle me this: was the chair on which Constantine stood the same chair from The Matrix? Because I think it is, and my long-standing insanity of The Matrix has been well-documented. In short, Constantine is the best anti-smoking propaganda film I've ever seen.

No title for you!

Not since Wednesday? Good gracious.

Thing #1: The Loonatics. A new version of the Looney Tunes characters set in the distant future, a future which seems to consist of scary eyes, dark colors, and long, curved lines. My take -- go for it. The originals are eternal, and adding to the universe is fine with me. They aren't calling the new characters "replacements" or "updates", so I will leave my purist attack mode aside. For now.

Thing #2: The movie Troy. Now, I fully expected to find a nearly limitless number of problems with this movie, my purist attack mode at the ready. I did not expect it to be a horrifically bad movie. If you're going to make a bad movie, stick to the text. If you're not going to stick to the text, at the very least make the movie worth watching.

Thing #3: The city of Pittsburgh. Surprisingly awesome.

Highlight reel material

With the hockey season officially over and done with, I give you the following play-by-play of a tic-tac-toe match in which I kicked the shit out of Slazak.

The arena: my cubicle, as we waited for a "webinar" to begin, forced into silence by the active speakerphone.


Opening honors: Livingston
Livingston chooses "X".

1: Livingston, lower left.
2: Slazak, upper right.
3: Livingston, middle right.
4: Slazak, lower right.
4: Livingston, middle left.

That's right. One round, three moves. Livingston completely eschewed the lengthy series of draws that usually takes place in a match and delivered a master stroke in the first round.

After the match, a brief round of generally unsportsmanlike conduct took place. Slazak, realizing he had lost, sent the paper back with the word "BASTARD" as his only response. Livingston, always the gentleman, carefully wrote a "Booyah!" on the pad, sure to write each letter clearly. Slazak then crumpled the piece of paper and tossed it at the back of Livingston's head, a clear display of his inability to emotionally handle competition on a professional level. Livingston, in a questionable move, quietly uncrumpled the paper and posted it on his bulletin board. When asked for comment after the match, Livingston stated that he finds it "a good way to get in his head. Every time he comes by, he'll have to look at the physical representation of how much he sucks". Slazak could not be reached for comment, as he was sitting in his cubicle crying.

What's your name?

Vroom vroom

Here's the report on the Auto Show.


Surprises:

• The ability of Buffalonians to consume food and beer. Amazes me every time.
• Some dude giving away free samples of Viagra. Oh, I thought about it.

Questions:

• The Porsche Cayenne. Why?
• Where was Audi?
• What's a guy got to do to find a car that isn't an SUV, isn't a boy racer, and isn't an old man car?

I saw some very nice vehicles today. The GT (g) was there, and it was pleasure to view again. The Shelby Cobra occupied a pedestal, ready to be worshipped, as well it should. Surprisingly cool dashboard on that car. They had a Viper(g) there; always nice. Points for creativity go to Jaguar for bringing the XKR (g) from Die Another Day, complete with rear-mounted gatling gun. Why did I not bring a camera?

So, aside from the supercars, I didn't really see a whole lot that did much for me. I want a car with 6 cylinders with price tag in the low twenties that isn't a Scion. Since I drive a Grand Am now, I sat in the G6. Enh. The biggest surprise for me was the Suzuki Verona, just about the only car there that fit the bill. I'll keep it in mind.

By the way, the cars with (g) after them are driveable in Gran Turismo 4. Heh heh heh....

Yeah, right.

Taking a half day tomorrow and a Friday off in a couple weeks. I met with little resistance. Will I pay for it? God yes. Will it be worth it? Still yes. Finally starting to realize that just-around-the-corner never comes.

So, what to do with this day off? Probably go visit the in-laws, which is kinda like a vacation in that it's a change of scenery. A cheap change, which is good. This year was supposed to be the year of my triumphant return to the slopes (as were the last two), but I'm a cheapass. The release date for GT4 is February 22nd, so the ol' PS2 may need to be brought along.

I've got a bad feeling about what's going to happen to my writing once that game comes out, considering the utter dominance its predecessor had over me. I must be strong! Videogames are the time-killer. I will permit them to pass over me and through me, and when they are gone, only I will remain.

I'm a damn zombie.

It's been a pretty steady few days. Have a remarkably difficult time getting up, go to work, eat dinner, watch TV, play videogames, go to sleep. Not much to report on the Alex front, so I'll send you some other places.

If you like folklore or Japan or all of the above, check this out. Click around to find other totally sweet stuff.

If you're going to be in NY in the coming weeks, go check this out.

Want to know what I've been listening to? Go check this out. RHAPSODY Link

Looking to waste some time? Go check this out.

I had to run to stand still.

Weird day. I was through the looking glass. The simple became intricate, and the perfect flawed. I was called upon to guard the defenseless, presented with a riddle in a strange language, and given a mysterious package with no explanation but a warning.

I think I need more sleep.

A far, far better Super Bowl

Let me tell you, my friends, the tale of two Super Bowls. I was invited to two events this year, and split my time between them.

The first took place on a remote island. I walked into the garage and was greeted by two dogs and two very large men. I had interrupted their game of Madden 2000 for the N64, but they didn't seem to mind. I put my beer in the snow out back. Inside, chicken wing dip and tacitos (sp?) were warming for our delight. We set up the table to play a drinking game they had made up a few weeks prior, which mainly involves the throwing of dice and the shouting of rude names. This was a grand time.

Back to the city for Super Bowl event number two. A walk up to the finished attic revealed three men dressed in black and seated in front of a very large TV, staring in silence. A table to the side had homemade guacamole and gourmet cheese to eat. The men drank cola, or mixed drinks. We watched the game, mainly making fun of the commentators, until about the end of the third quarter, at which point someone put a motion on the floor to break up the uncomfortable silence and change the entertainment to the Xbox. For the remainder of the night we shot the hell out of each other with great success. This, also, was a grand time.

And there you have it. A short trip down the highway between the two ends of the earth.

Pilgrimage

Did something new today. Took a half an hour drive to see a car. A local Ford dealership has a GT on display, and Holy Jesus was it worth it. They made like 5,000 of these things, and they run about $125K. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up. Right there in the showroom, besides the disappointing Mustang, is this beast of a vehicle, on display behind a white chain as if it were a piece of art. Now, if I were a for-real car guy, I'd be going on about all kinds of details. I'm only a dabbler, so all I can say is that it was goddamn hot. Once again I find myself incapable of waiting for Gran Turismo 4.

Here's the only negative thing I have to say about the Ford GT: there's a sweet looking speaker between the seats. Why is that negative? Under what circumstances are you playing the radio while driving this thing? Aren't you supposed to be listening to the angelic (demonic?) hum of the engine behind your head? Shit, if I owned that car, I'd have an Ipod with a single mp3 of that sound and would listen to it all the damn time.

I'll call it the Aramis.

A lunch-time conversation about this led to a discussion of the recent trend in handheld devices, that being the all-in-one. Cell phones that are cameras. PDAs with wireless internet. Et cetera.

So, just what would the ideal all-in-one have?

• Phone
• Pager - a subset of phone, really.
• Wireless internet - so we can all be mindless blackberry drones.
• USB drive - disks are so 2002.
• PDA, and everything that implies.
• MP3 player
• Digital camera
• Video recorder - phones have these now, right?
• DVD player - miniDVDs are on their way, so why not?
• Videogame device - with the rash of handhelds coming out, add a D-pad to the thing and we're go.
• GPS device
• Radio - kinda weird to think about, isn't it? Transistor radios?
  
• Satellite TV - possible? No clue.
  

Any of these would also be cool.

• flashlight - so you can stop using the spooky screen-glow to find things in the dark,
  
• tazer / mace / personal alarm - the issue here it, it becomes a weapon.
  
• tweezers, toothpick, etc. Anything in the Victorinox Swiss Card
  
• mini-projector - why not?
  
• lighter - Colibri makes real small ones. Throw it on there! Need a light? It's right next to the button that reveals all of my personal information!
  

007 in Tomorrow Never Comes.

Recent events have sown the seeds for the latest in my series of stories set in someone else's world: Bond in Buffalo.

James Bond, after having many adventures in exotic locales, finally tracks his quarry to Buffalo, NY. Q makes him take the BMW, because he won't let the Vanquish anywhere near the Rust Belt. Bond shows up on a Sunday afternoon in December, dying for a drink after the endlessly boring drive of the 90. At first, he is under the impression that a neutron bomb has gone off, due to the utter lack of people or traffic. M informs him there's a Bills game on.

He heads straight for the restaurant at which he is supposed to meet his escort for the night. He walks to the bar and lights up a smoke, much to the surprise and dismay of everyone around him. A woman walks up and asks that he extinguish it, slipping something into his jacket pocket.
It's an invitation to a party being held by the evil mastermind, as per the plan. James downs his martini and heads back to his car, which is now covered with snow. As he brushes it off, getting salt and snow all over his suit, somebody asks him for thirty-seven cents to get to Niagara Falls. James declines and drives off.

A few hours later, and the party begins. James is on the prowl for someone to close the movie with, but can't help noticing that all of the women are middle-aged and short. He asks the bartender where all the girls are, and receives the answer that everyone of eligible age has moved away. The bartender is clearly disappointed that James is straight.
Bond sneaks around until he is face to face with the bad guy, whose henchman captures him. As Bond is slowly lowered to a painful death, the mastermind reveals his plan to buy land to the west of every major city in the world. He will make man-made lakes, causing lake effect weather across the globe.

The mastermind would have been happy hijacking the signature bridge to get the bingo monies, or even opening a Mighty Taco at the new waterfront, but these were just pipe dreams, and now, scarred and disappointed, he is bent on world domination.

Everybody relax.

After the flood of complaints I have received about my lack of posts, I bring you Alex's Week at a Glance. Imagine a man going to work and being really pissed off. Now imagine a man sleeping. Anything not listed below can be assumed to be one of the above.

M - TW 2003 and BSG. We all know Tiger Woods is grand fun, but most of us are sadly unaware that Battlestar Galactica defies all sensibility and is good. Like good good. Get off your high horse and give it a watch. We know you liked Next Generation, try as you might to hide it.

T - AVP. Good? No. Awesome? Yes. Now, the debate has certainly earned the title "age-old" by this point, but I'll rehash it once again. The Predator would beat the Aliens. It would beat a single alien, it would beat a hive of aliens, it would beat the queen alien. It would beat a face-hugger. The aliens are only nasty because they hide in the dark all the time. The Predator can see in the dark. Conversation over.

W - Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. This movie set out to recreate the style of old adventure serials. It did a great, great job at this. The problem is, old adventure serials suck.

H - Go out drinking.

F - Work event, at which I further alienate myself from my coworkers. There was a limbo contest, in which I did not participate.

And there you have it.

High altitude, low sportsmanship.

Where I be at indeed.

Since it appears to have been far, far too long since last I posted, here's something untimely ripped from webshite to tide you over:

Had some lads by to play some Halo 2. Played Oddball. Liked Oddball. Frustrated the hell out of my compatriots with the following strategy: when you're about to die with the ball, jump off a cliff. He who chases you must then go all the way back to the ball's spawn point. I suggest throwing the ball back towards them as you fall to your doom, just to mess with 'em. If ever there was justification for building a "give the finger" command in to a game, this is it. Imagine the joy of taking the ball into the bottomless chasm, leaving your enemy staring down at the bird.

Cabin fever (cont.)

Snow and cold means no leaving the house. And that means the History Channel. Every US President from Rutherford B Hayes to George W Bush. The French Revolution. The war of 1812. My field of vision now has a little "H" burned into its lower right corner.

Cabin fever

God damn cold out there. Our plans of running various errands have been thwarted by one Mister John Frost. So now we sit inside, waiting for nothing to happen. This is one of those days where having two computers looks better and better.

I tell you a tale of a young man, a man in his prime, and an idiot. Once, I took a class on Greek language. The professor was wise and friendly, but had little patience for dimwittedness. I enjoyed this class quite a bit, and ended up taking many of his courses throughout my college career.

Years later, I was approached by a friend who had only just recently graduated. He told me that one day, the said same professor was giving a lecture, came to a certain point and asked the class some questions about it. After not receiving the answers he was hoping for, he stated "Don't worry about it. In all my years of teaching this course, only one student ever really understood this concept." The person, my friend claimed, was me. He then went on to tell me that he told the professor he knew me, to which I replied "So? What was it?!?!".

"Oh, I don't remember."

Much screaming ensued. Now, this guy may very well have been pulling my leg, but I must know. Now, years later yet again, I have made a contact through work who may give me a reason to get back in touch with the prof and see what's up. I'll keep you posted.

Zoom zoom.

One year left on the lease. I drive this. ($19K) I've been considering this, (low $20K's) but we'll see how it looks in real life come October. The other day, Her Worshipfulness saw a commercial which offered a low price, and thought we should get this ($17 K). My boss seems to think he pays me enough to suggest I look at this ($30K), but he clearly hasn't looked at a budget report recently. So, anyone got any recommendations?

Dzzt. Dzzzzzt. Dzzt dzzt.

I got to play with the robot today. They had an open house for the thing and they let employees give it a go -- not bad for the new bazillion dollar surgical tool. I gave it a whirl, sticking my face in the camera hole, reaching tentatively towards the controls. They had what I assume were custom training materials set up for demo purposes, and I spent a few minutes moving tiny rubber bands around through a series of colorful rubber polyps the surgeon affectionately referred to as "Whoville". I was well-prepared for the inevitable, that my vast experience in the world of videogaming would give me apparently preternatural skills with the thing and the doctors would all crowd around in awe of the rookie's mad robot skills. Fortunately for their egos, they were occupied with something else and did not see my magnificent display.

So similar, and yet...

Watched a whole football game yesterday. Went to a friend's house with the intent of watching a football game, watched said football game, enjoyed the aforementioned football game.

My friend became embarrassed several times after screaming at the television quite loudly. I told him not to worry about it, that he had no reason to be embarrassed, that it's his place after all, etc.

Still he felt shame, until this commercial for the highly-anticipated Gran Turismo 4 for the PS2 came on, at which I point I began screaming at the television. A look of surprise and barely-concealed bemusement came over his face as he politely asked about the upcoming title.

After that, the TV began to whimper in anticipation of the no-holds-barred tongue-lashing it was going to receive for the next three quarters. The TV was last seen rocking itself to sleep in a corner, telling itself everything would be alright.

I was so close.

A clutch of my amigos (all of whom write for webshite, I believe) have
been sucked into a black vortex known as World of Warcraft. I do not
play Massively Multiplayer Online Role-playing Games for a variety of
reasons, nor do I have any interest in high fantasy games, or mayhaps
I might have joined them. Fortunately for my sanity and carpal
tunnel, I did not.

I tried to explain MMORPG's to Her Worship the other day. It went
along these lines:

A: So, it's a videogame, but it's not linear or plot-driven. You walk
around and do whatever.

HW: And you can do whatever you want?

A: Just about. If you do anything too nuts, an admin shows up as a
god and smacks you around a bit.

HW: Yeah, yeah. But you can just wander around in the world?

A: If you want. Usually there's some kind of over-arching plot, but you can...

HW: Like Pern?

At this point, our hero starts to get grandiose ideas of getting Her
Worshipfullness into MMORPGs, of needing to buy a gaming rig to handle
the games, one of those hot Alienware PCs, and we'd spend nights
together in the gameroom, me on the Xbox, her on the ALX. And it
would be joyous.

A: Sure. So you would be a merchant or a dragonrider or whatever you
want. Just existing in the Pern universe.

HW: Can you imagine the time it must have taken to program all that?
Every person in every town?

A: Well, the people are other players.

HW: What?

A: Yeah, you know. People from all over, just like you, playing the game.

HW: Well, fuck that.

Worst big brother ever.

The tag came off the back of my tie today, but I really can't bitch too much. You see, I went back to my home town of Merrimack, NH for a wedding several months ago. My mom no longer lives in Merrimack, but my brothers do, so I crashed with one of them. Had the suit, the shoes, the handkerchief, but forgot the tie. By some miracle, my brother had a few ties. I picked the most conservative. I packed the most conservative. Unintentionally.

Now, one might think I would remember to bring the tie to Thanksgiving to return it to him. One would be wrong. One would be correct, though, if one thought that I would accidentally abscond with the same brother's snow-scraper.

Finally found me

Chew on this. I'm a classics nerd, and therefore will ofttimes cite Homer as my favorite author. My favorite artist? Winslow Homer. Nickname of close friend? Homer*. Unfortunately, my favorite Simpson's character is Moe and my best sports moment was making a save in gym class floor hockey, so it's not enough to be a full obsession. More of a streak, I guess. Still -- weird. I like stuff called Homer.

*Why not "favorite"? Grown men don't have favorite friends.

There is a priest, after all.

You know what sucks? Aspiring to write and watching Carnevale. I've got some catching up to do.

A co-worker asked what I did this weekend. When I told her I watched Carnevale last night, she asked what kind of show it is. Being far too pavloved to say "well, I guess it would be classfied as urban fantasy, even though it's not in a city, but that seems to be the term used for anything fantasy that isn't high fantasy with like elves and stuff, and it's definitely not sci-fi, so I guess I'd say urban fantasy / alternate history" to a normal person, I found myself at a loss. I ended up saying "almost like spiritual, I guess" then trying to back-pedal forthwith. Just what I need: the "jesus-freak" moniker in the workplace. Spiritual... what was I thinking?

I lost track of what I was talking about.

Went to work for a bit today. The office is weird on the weekends. An hour feels like half a shift. This means that you get all kinds of work done, but also that you look at the clock every two minutes. I've got a deadline on Friday and lots to do before then, so I figured I'd give the old Xbox a well-deserved break this afternoon.

Does anyone know the Seven Habits of Highly Effective people? Is one of them "plays a lot of videogames"? If it weren't so cold, maybe I'd be doing something in real life (like sitting on the porch), but until then the digital realm will likely be by residence.

What beautiful music they make.

Weird dream last night. I was in an office building with a couple of teenagers. The floor we were on was flooded with black water. We assumed the elevator was out so I suggested we take the stairs. Just as one of the teens asked "the stairs to where?", the corner I was turning became a dark back hallway with peeling paint on the doors. A 6-year-old version of the teen ran past me in terror, and I turned the corner to go up to what I knew was the attic. To face what, you ask? Just at the climax, I could no longer see and my head was forced to the swiftly side by cold, thin fingers. A fingernail lightly grazed the jugular on my exposed neck. Vampires! I lashed out against the arms, only to find that my wife was trying to wake me up so I would stop screaming. Oops.

Everyone knows your name.

Sorry 'bout the dearth of posts recently. Been playing way. too. much. Ninja Gaiden. It's horribly embarrassing to even bring up the title. I mean, playing videogames is geeky enough, but play games with ninjas? Geez. If you need me, I'll be getting my lunch money stolen.

Stranger than truth.

As I imagine is the case for many blogwrights, for a long time there as been a part of me that wants to be a writer. Of the various genres I've tried over the years, the essay is my strongest, but there really isn't much call for essays written by people what don't do anything or know anything. I mean, if I wrote magazine articles on my travels in the Yucatan, people might be interested, but I've never been to the Yucatan.

This brings me to reflection on the purpose of published writing. We write to communicate information, to make points, and to entertain. I have no information to impart, few well-backed opinions, and my fiction has consistently been terrible. Thus, I have no right to write. Thus, also, this blog. I enjoy writing, but can't keep up with all the work involved in doing it in a meaningful fashion, so I spill my thoughts here for you all.

Writing is about the only productive thing I have consistently enjoyed or taken any pride in. That means I'm supposed to go for it, right? Aren't I somehow less of a person if I don't follow whatever foolhardy dreams I may come up with? Problem is, aside from the dreams of sitting quietly at a desk and finding the notes that resonate, I also have dreams of being able to consistently pay my rent. So, I guess I should pursue it as a hobby and plug away at ye olde grind.

Should old acquaintance be forgot?

What will future generations say about New Year's Eve? When the History Channel geeks write up a special on the ancient traditions, what will they have to write about? A a big ball was lowered in New York, everyone counted the last few seconds, they sang an old song no one knew. Lovers kissed, resolutions were made for the coming year, and the whole country got really drunk.

What I like about New Year's is its secular and non-family nature. If you don't do New Year's with family, it doesn't make you a terrible person. Finally a holiday where the obligation doesn't overshadow the celebration. While I certainly enjoy the but-you-have-to-come holidays, the back-to-back nature of Turkey Day and Christmas make New Year's a nice break.

double oh never mind

Those who know me know I'm a big Bond fan. I have seen every movie except the one with Denise Richards, have read several of the books, have logged an unspeakable number of hours playing James Bond videogames, have spent hours researching Aston Martin, have been to a Bond-themed bar, have gone as Bond to a Halloween party, laughed at the refential jokes in Austin Powers, etc. After a recent successful viewing of Goldfinger, with 7/8 of my normal blood capacity and under unusual amounts of stress, I gave some strong consideration to a Bond blog, in which I would chronicle a viewing of all of the film. After a nap and some food, I decided against this. I mean, how often would I post? What would I have to say? So, consider yourselves lucky that I didn't start up yet another ill-advised blog.

When Alex was in Egypt's lands...

I have few guilty pleasures. This is due mainly to the fact that I partake in many pleasures and feel guilt about almost none of them. Today I savored one of those few -- calling in sick. Now, I don't mean calling in sick when you're not, which ain't right. I mean calling in sick when you're actually sick. I usually slog my way through the work day when feeling ill, but from time to time I give the call. I don't even do the sick voice. This is grand. Sleep half the day, laze about the rest, and feel tip-top the next morning.

Why don't I do this every time I feel sick? Because I have a work problem. Any time you guys want to stage an intervention to tell me you're all concerned about my working, feel free to jump right in. Granted, I rarely work late or on weekends, but still. Dude needs to take some damn vay-cay now and then. If I make it to the DMV before my birthday, it will proof of divine providence.

No, Mister Bond. I expect you to boogie.

Nothing beats a good sample. It's like a little puzzle in the song, taunting you for not being cool enough to get it. As a fan of DJ Shadow, I've pretty much given up on any meager shot I had at being the guy who points out the source of samples. But yesterday, as I partook in 007 Days of Christmas, I heard a familiar strain. You know that song 6 Underground by Sneaker Pimps, the infi-cool song from the Saint soundtrack? The first few notes are a sample of the music playing when James Bond walks into the bedroom to find his latest girl coated in gold. This, quite clearly, is awesome. It is also an indicator that I need to lay off the spy flicks a little.

RHAPSODY Link

I'd offer you a comparison, but Rhapsody doesn't have the Goldfinger soundtrack. Dammeht.

Quiet on the field.

Something unlikely happened at my house yesterday. After the cookie-filled close of Christmas dinner proper, the women cleaned up and the men sat in the living room and watched football. That's right -- an actual football game on the TV in my home. From this experience, I took away one thing and one thing only: on holidays, men watch football not out of any love of the sport, but rather a desire to not have to engage in conversation for a time.

As you may have noticed, both this post and the two prior reveal me to be completely small-talked out.

Daddy's going to kill Ralphie.

In the post-coffee, pre-extended-family-arrival lull, is it inappropriate to pull out the Xbox? Between prepping din-din, brushing off the car, and watching A Christmas Story repeatedly, the fam is relatively occupied. I fear, though, that they are not occupied enough not to take serious umbrage to me continuing my battle against the Covenant. I can hear the whispers now: "I can't believe Alex is playing videogames. Why isn't he sitting in here with us, waiting in bored silence for something to happen?"

Zen and the Art of Vehicle Maintenance

I have found peace, and it is at Target. Despite unruly throngs of holiday desperation, the automotive section at holds strong as a bastion against the cruel Hell that is shopping. There, men find solace from wives and children (their own and others'), wandering in with the vaguest of intents, staring in gentle contemplation at shelves of windshield wiper fluid, content with this brief respite from noise and obligation.

It's on the street.

Sometimes life is like a sitcom. Like today's episode, in which our well-meaning but often befuddled protagonist awakes to a 50F cold house, determines that the heat isn't working, calls the pretty young landlady who comes in as the pretty younger wife tries to distract her from the pile of (albeit clean) dishes in the sink, calls in to work saying he'll be late, goes out to the 3F unbearably cold car, drives to work wondering why his allegedly insulated boots aren't keeping his toes any warmer than if he wore ice-blocks in their stead, gets to his 70F warm cube, starts to feel sick from the wild temperature swings, vows to stay indoors for the entire day, pours himself a cup of coffee, sets to working, then makes a face at the camera when the fire alarm goes off.

The smell of cakes and pies is absolutely everywhere.

It's coming.

The gauntlet of the mall has been run several times over, and with success. Guestlists have been cemented within reasonable margins. Nog abounds. My home is primed for Christmas, but what does one do with the few days between now and then? Being ready early creates a quiet, smoldering stress, the feeling that you should be doing something. Do we have the right tablecloth? Should we pick up those swizzle-sticks? Since during this season all are expected to be rushing around getting ready, the entire engine of the US is set towards that one goal. There's nothing else to do. So, I will sit quietly in my home, letting the dulling glow of the tree distract me.

This big.

I'm no fisherman, but I caught a decent-sized fish once, and put the picture up in my cube. I recommend doing this. Take something from your personal life and post it for the visitors to see. Why, you ask? Here's an example.

Today, someone came to my office. This poor guy has being trying to get some info out of me via phone for a few weeks, but I've been too busy to find the answer he's looking for. So, in he comes. I turn to my PC, making extempore ingratiating sounds and "pulling him up" to make a good show of it. When I turn back to tell him I haven't done anything for him, he interrupts me to ask about the fish. Is that a tiger muskie? What lake is that? Have you ever fished Lake Youveneverheardof? Et cetera. He left satisfied that I was indeed busy and not just blowing him off, dreaming of grandiose fish.

Double bogey

3 strikes and you're out. Everybody knows this. You get three tries, and if you screw it up all three times, you're in trouble. But does the rest of the world follow the same rule, since they don't play baseball? Do British people get six tries at everything, because you get six overs in cricket? Do the Scots measure everything in par? "It took you five times to get this right, Wilson. It's a 3-par. Take a hike".

Iceman / Lightning Boy / Magic Dude

Saw an odd thing on this Geek Day. A Domino's delivery vehicle. Why odd? Any native Buffalo pizza place on its worst day beats the highest quality Domino's has ever or will ever provide. What kind of sick individual orders Domino's around here? Stockholders? Why Geek Day? The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King Special Edition DVD is released tonight at midnight. Every nerd in America is sitting at his computer right now, considering whether or not to wait. This in and of itself is more of a Geek Observance than a full Geek Day, but the fact that the Sci-Fi original feature Earthsea, based on the books of Ursula LeGuin, is also coming out today takes us out of Ordinary Time and in to the holiday.

Just one lump.

When people rent, one of the attributes they consider in an apartment is often summarized as "character". This can be roughly translated to "looks old". My apartment, for example, has one of the quaint, old-timey round analog thermostats. It doesn't work. The heat is either on or off, and does not stop when the assigned temperature has been reached. This makes for some very cold mornings, since there's no one awake to turn the heat on and off every couple of hours. The morning shave has become a trial of fire. The good news is, the milk stays very cool in my cereal, and I believe I am becoming hardened to the cold. Don't worry, I won't rub it in.

Go get 'em, Tiger.

Press conference at the hospital today. You see, we bought this robot. The surgeon sits down and moves a controller around, and then the robot mimics the movements on a much smaller scale. As my betters got up in front of the cameras explaining the benefits of less invasive surgery methods and the long-terms cost savings, my stare could not be averted from the motionless arms of the robot, silent and poised. I had a meeting to go to, and thus did not get to see the merged-man-machine in action. From the lack of alarms, I inferred that my fear that the robot would take control of its master and go on a rampage, committing wanton acts of healthcare in accordance to its programming throughout the downtown area until well-meaning law enforcement personnel were forced to shoot the misunderstood beast down was not founded. And by "fear", I mean "hope".

Moon pies.

It's over. UPS picked up the old and busted Dell today, after DHL's failed attempts. What can Brown do for me? Get my stuff back to Dell so fast that I've already received confirmation, that's what. How did they track stuff before the internet? Before computers? Before fax machines? We live in an age that is sure to some day be hearkened back to as golden.

Ad infinitum

I have known the eternity of death, and it is the stretch of I-90 between Erie, PA and Buffalo, NY. That drive reminds me of various conversations I have been subjected to in which people try to explain to me how time goes slower when you travel at the speed of light. Or something like that. The scenery calls to mind the scrolling backgrounds in Hanna-Barbera cartoons. Only by losing one's self and accepting that cruel Time will place you in Buffalo when she sees fit and no sooner can you survive without descending into utter madness. Be warned.

There's a really big snake.

Never been to Ikea before. No one told me it was enchanted. All people who enter are doomed to walk in circles, passing the same secret-language-labelled displays over and over until they decide to buy something. At that point, the prices get lower the more one looks around, drawing the starry-eyed customer deeper and deeper into the maze. The key to escape is left right out in the open, mocking those who overlook them -- hideous yellow bags are piled in bins around the store, and only by plucking one will the unwitting shopper reveal the exit.

Joiner

Discerning B A Starters may have noticed the "Get Firefox" button under "Other Links". Now's when I tells ya why's I likes the Firefox.

#1 - They say it's safer. I can only assume they mean the menus and buttons are placed in such a way that my inevitable debilitation due to carpal tunnel syndrome will be pushed back a few weeks.

#2 - Extensions. They've got all these user-created extensions of the software that do cool stuff. At least they look like they do cool stuff. I mean, I'm not really sure what a mouse gesture is, but since I don't, it must be cool, right? Knowledge I don't have is supposed to be cool, isn't it?

#3 - Themes. Tired of your boring browser? Well, Firefox has got tons of user-created themes, which change the look of the buttons and what not. Granted, 75% of them are based on pawprints, but hey. At first I was disappointed in this feature, since I was expecting a searchable online database of junior-high themes on various topics, such as what I did during my summer vacation. I adjusted.

#4 - The logo. The Firefox logo is pretty. I like pretty things. Well, maybe not all pretty things. A lot of pretty things, though. Probably most. That I've seen. Like in my life and stuff.

I'm a big fan of the pop-up blocker and password manager. I also like being able to search Wikipedia and IMDB from the toolbar. So go download it. It's pretty sweet.

Someday it may matter.

I really need to defrag. I've been experiencing a serious increase in processing time for even the most basic of tasks. Errors, hangs, and full freezes are becoming more frequent. I tried the disk cleanup, but the temporary files are already all wiped out. Seems that files are being flat-out deleted instead of just moved to the Recycle Bin. Maybe I should try a good registry cleaner. With all of the programs installed and uninstalled over the years, I'm sure there's all kind of stuff that needs to be straightened out.

I'm starting to become concerned that the problem is not hard-drive space but processor speed. How can I tell if I'm pushing the machine too hard? I've often wondered if I should dedicate the time and money to upgrading the thing piecemeal. Knowing me, I'll just keep working the poor thing until it fries. My brain, I mean. Not the new computer. That arrived and everything's fine. The gray matter on the other hand, no so much.

I can hear the ocean.

Been trying to stay later at work the last couple days. Got two big ol' projects due by year-end and it's go time. Something in the untended pile of scraps and weeds that composes my mind heard my voice bemoaning a lack of time in the day and finally figured out that I have the ability to make more if it. So for the last couple days, instead of running off in a depressed huff shortly after the five o'clock hour, I've been working on these projects with quiet deliberation for a bit, the constant chatter of my coworkers replaced by the slow, calming sussuration of my belly wondering just what in the Hellespont is going on. All those suck-ups may be on to something after all.

Layers

Some deficiency in my nature or upbringing (though I doubt the latter, as my parents really did try) leaves a noticable gap in my personality where the enjoyment of sports should be. Try as I might, nothing seems to stick. Through the efforts of many, I've developed into a decent hockey fan, but still can't sit and watch a whole game by myself. I managed to attend every home high school football game and come away with no idea what "fair catch" means. F1, rally racing, and skiing remain the only events I can stomach, probably because I have driven a car and have also skiied. (Skied? Too bored with it to even look it up.)

Fictional sports, on the other hand, merit being called an obsession. Watching Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban last night stoked that fire until it glowed with warm geekiness. I know as much about Quidditch as any person living. While my interest in the Harry Potter series can at most be described as passing, the merest glimpse of the oval and rings makes the blood pound in my under-exercised heart. The two other biggies are pod racing and blitzball. I sincerely wish I could explain why the distractions of made-up people keep my attention more easily than actual human competition, but I am at a complete loss, an observer of my own habits as removed as you are. Feel free to submit tentative explanations -- your guess is at least as good as mine.

Denouement to Follow

I'm sending it back. The morning after the last iteration in the saga of Alex vs. the Dell, the blue screen came up again. I spent the day getting primed for the call, running through the playbook in my mind, devising stratagems, hardening my resolve. I hate being Angry Customer Guy and have been fortunate enought not to have to don that mask but a few times. This was going to be his greatest victory.

I called the Dell I-Heart-Customers line, guns at the ready. They offered to replace the machine and send UPS to pick up the old one for free. No need to bring out the Sith lord.

Arms and the Bragiole

New research on the life of Homer has uncovered surprising details. Here's the first stanza from Butler's Iliad:

Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless
ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did it send hurrying down to
Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs and vultures, for so were
the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the day on which the son of Atreus, king
of men, and great Achilles, first fell out with one another.

Compare to the following:

You know my husband, your father, your grandfather, of course he's not with us
now, but when he was alive years ago, after he started his business and we lived
on Wesland street with the red house and the Ford, which I tried to learn how to
drive, and let me tell you I heard some language from him then, he always was
out bowling, you know he liked to bowl.

Comparative study has revealed that Homer was a 75-year-old Italian woman from the Bronx.

Get a pen and paper.

I'd like to place a motion on the floor. Let's move Thanksgiving to September. Those of you who don't live in the Northeast may think this silly, but I would ask that you hear me out.

One would be foolish to miss Thanksgiving. A single day of feast and relaxed conversation in celebration of the traditions of hard work, inclusiveness,and piety that are so definitive to Americans. No singing, no church, no torn paper. Unfortunately, the gods of nature have clearly ruled that travel to and from this peaceful event be a task worthy of the great. Each year they loose the black-browed storm god upon us hapless mortals, and each year we must strain and suffer to earn our place at the table.

But we're America. The gods do not decide our fate. We have the power to circumvent their trickery by simply changing the date of our observance. Clearly another autumn month would be preferable, keeping in line with the harvest theme of the day. October has Halloween, a holiday fervently celebrated by all but the most Fundamentalist, the Ebenezers of All Hallows Eve. September comes out as the clear leader. Write your congressman.

Man, I don't know.

B A Start Poll: Should I take advantage of Dell's Total Satisfaction Return Policy? I've got until the 24th to make up my mind. And I think I would have to pay for shipping. For a year, they'll come out and replace broken stuff.

After repeated blue screens and full on crashes today, I called support and got somebody good. He recommended a registry cleaner and a full diagnostic. Some Christmas shopping and an ice-cream later, the diag tool is still running. It doesn't come up with anything. I call 'em back, they take down some info and give me the number for customer care.

So, I'm muy torn. Send in your comments and lets here what you folks have to say.

Also, I'm thinking about changing the name of this blog to "DescentIntoDell.blogspot.com".

Stanza 3

The saga continues. I started getting the old Blue Screen of Death again, so I email Dell support about it. The next day I get a reply with some dangerous-looking instructions. There was DOS typing. So, mustering up some courage, I give it a go last night. Nearest I could tell, the idea was to remove a corrupted file from my PC and replace it with the orignal from the XP CD. I got down to the end of the process, and my PC told me "Access is denied" in its typically flat manner. So, I exit and restart, becoming the proud owner of a machine built for one thing -- bringing up a blue screen.

I call Dell Support. The nice pre-recorded lady asks me to enter my express service code. After a few seconds, she patiently informs me that it can be found on a label on my PC. This is fiction. I go back to the beginning and try to guess what combination of numbers will give me a person who knows how to do something other than sell me stuff. Twenty minutes on hold and one hour of instruction later, my PC is now allegedly configured exactly the same as when I first opened the box.

It froze up when I started it up this morning. It's ok now. Further updates as events warrant.

Tales of the Rhap

I had no plans of seeing The Matrix. Keanu Reeves? Are you joking? Having been dragged there, I fell deeply and irrevocably in love with the movie at the first sight of the green terminal text. It brought back memories. Good memories of early geek tendencies allowed to flourish.

The next day, the deep desire to bring some part of the movie back home with me to love in private led to the purchase of the soundtrack. This stayed in constant rotation for a long time. There was a splinter in my mind, though. The song Neo is listening to when we first see him, fallen asleep on his PC, was not to be found. The little that we hear sounds like the best song in the movie, and being denied it was unacceptable. Nonetheless, I pressed on with life, unsated and soured.

Years later, Her Worshipfulness was toying with Rhapsody and the song came on. I walked into the computer room wild-eyed and slack-jawed, trying to force long-dormant synapses to fire. Finally it came to me, and I did rejoice. And the best part was, another song from the soundtrack of another favorite movie of mine is on the same album. So go listen to Massive Attack's Mezzanine.

Who's a big boy?

Why do they always make me hold the baby? Is it just to watch me freak out? Do they think it's cute? Why do they say I'm a natural when I quite clearly am holding my breath and sweating? Is that what infants like? Is the sound of blood rushing from my face similar to the noises of the womb? Does the mother-baby bond cause a positive reaction to terror in others? Most people won't let you drive their new car or wear your shoes on the new carpet, but hold the progeny? I insist!

Dimwit

I applied for a job this weekend. I'm not actively seeking a new job, but when this passed my field of view, I knew I could not resist. I've been checking in now and then since they posted a writing position a while back, and this position is pretty much the same as my current job. Except with more Star Wars. The Lucasfilm site used to have benefits etc posted, and working on the ranch, taking the company sailboat out for a turn about the bay, and living just a few minutes from Frisco sure sounded pretty good to me.

So, I threw together a cover letter and resume detailing my exploits and explaining beyond any doubt why I'm the guy. I pasted 'em into the provided boxes, filled out my personal info, and sent my little baby out into the wide world to see what he could do. But, as I clicked "Submit", something seemed strange. I hit the back arrow, and there it was, for all the Employment Office to see. My home phone number was wrong.

I have been the office joke at the Ranch for the last few days. Unconfirmed rumors on theforce.net have stated that the HR folks were seen laughing it up at lunch, talking about "that phone number guy". "I hope they don't ask me about attention to detail at the interview, honey." "Hey, saw you had an opening, give me a call. Oh wait." Et cetera.

Save room for later.

In the vein of yesterday's post, a story idea has been rolling around in la cabesa. This dude is skulking around a factory, on his way to assassinate the head of the company. His people have been in the thrall of the owner for ages, since before he was born. Their entire society was transplanted from the homeland to the giant factory, which as far as he can tell is in the middle of a giant city. He and his kind work the machines, toiling endlessly to make specialty foods for the decadent city-dwellers. The oldest of his fellows in slavery call the factory owner a savior, naming some long-forgotten aid he provided, but he doesn't buy it. So, he's on his way to kill the owner and free his people. His people being the Oompa-Loompas from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It's one of those stories.

I think you can see why I'm not a writer. I have zero original ideas. If
a career could be made out of writing "but he's really the Cowardly Lion!" stories, I'd be a wealthy man.

Straight on until mourning.

I'd like to see an American-McGee'd-out version of Peter Pan. Some kid falls in a barrel and becomes a Lost Boy. When he shows up in Neverland, he is immediately grabbed by Hookcorp Security and impressed into service in the Fairydust Extraction Complex. The fairies have been hooked up to Giger-looking machines that pull their flight-granting dust directly from their glands. All the fairies have to look forward to is death, but the dead are shipped down to the Reanimation Floor, where former pirates and indians sit in drug-induced comas repeating that they do believe.

With Pan gone and grown-up, the Lost Boys have split into various Lord-of-the-Flies factions. Some are hired by Hookcorp as fairy hunters. Others are bent on rebellion, fired by timeworn stories that the ancient Mother told their forefathers. Their tormented bodies are often seen on display in the Complex, an example of the natural result of non-compliance with corporate policy. Naturally, our hero falls in with one of these bands and brings about the demise of Hookcorp. And there are mermaids in there somewhere.

Day of rest, my eye.

Sorry for the wait. You still love me, don't you?

Sunday was a rough day. All I wanted to do was make a few changes and post. At ten-thirty PM, after a day of demands, I sit down at the new Dell and watch the Blue Screen of Death appear. I know no fear, having seen this screen many times in my travels. A quick reset, and I'm back in business.

Except that I'm not.

A couple hours of bugging (I mean -out, not de-) and it's time for bed. Couldn't get through to support. Set up the trusty old Win 98 rig, email support my tale of woe. Much to my surprise, this morning there's a reply. Like all oracles, this reply spoke in byzantine riddles. I replied to the replier, making sure to use the word "warranty". Another response comes, this one clear as crystal in February. And now I'm back in the game. I have a weird bruise on my knuckle, which I can only assume cam from me biting it during my tense sleep, but other than that, no harm done. Could this have caused the problem? Who can tell? Either way, I'm buying a new scanner.

Secret doors that you can't come back through.

Well that was a close one.

I went to hook up my scanner yesterday, and it was no go with XP. The company website just came right out and said "we didn't make a new driver. Too damn bad, losers." Her Worshipfulness flat out refused to even consider buying a new scanner. Wild suggestions of setting up the old machine on an as-needed basis or bringing stuff in to work to scan came up. Things were looking grim.

I bemoaned my plight to an associate at work today. He wove a wondrous tale of websites with drivers available for download. I had heard of such things, but never anything as grand as he described. XP drivers created by users and distributed on a no-pay basis? Who are these guys? At the first opportunity, I went out and found the promised driver. Weary and roadworn, I neglected to read the instructions before attempting to install. In the events that followed, I nearly went mad, lost in a labyrinth of .ini files and dizzied by the timewarp of restore points.

Finally success was mine. With pluck and wit, I beat the machine at its own riddle game, winning its servitude forever.

DHKA has updated. Go check it out.

Worth it.

Long-time readers of B A Start will remember this fan favorite, in which I poked fun at people who blog Rhapsody playlists. As a quick click on the comments will show you, this brought the architects of Rhapsody directly to my doorstep. I find this to be awesome.

Now, I know for a fact that a whole bunch of you dedicated B A Starters are equally-if-not-more-so dedicated Rhapsody members. You know the joy. Now get over to Rhapsody Rock School and check it out. Go to the source, dudes.

If I'm not one myself.

Dude. It's here. The biggest Geek Day since the holiday's inception. Firefox and Halo 2 on the same day.

A brief history. The Geek Day tradition started long ago with the release of the Star Wars: Episode I trailer online. This event was the first recorded example of a date with attributes we now associate with Geek Day. Work is cut, internet usage spikes, and the IT guys are all abuzz. Modern historians state that the combination of the availability of high-speed internet access and genius marketing decisions made a for heady cocktail the geeks of the world were all too ready to try. Geek Day has been observed recently with midnight vigils at Best Buy, marking the release of Doom III and the extended editions of Lord of the Rings.

November 9th, 2004 marks the first full release of Firefox, the geek's choice of web browser. It's safe, fast, and easy; it's not well-known to non-geeks, thus granting uber-nerd status to those that use it; it's not by Microsoft. The kids are loving it. A pre-release version has been available for a while, but today's the day to sport your Mozilla polo shirt and celebrate. The website was frickin' mobbed this morning.

Also, Halo 2, the highly hyped sequel to one of the most successful games in recent memory, was released at midnight. There exists no decent reason for it to be anything short of unspeakably good.

Now that I've downloaded Firefox 1.0 and posted, I'm off to play Halo 2. The geek priests would be pleased with my observance rituals.

Forget Niagara Falls

I don't get a lot of email. This works out well for me, as I consistently go ages and ages without replying, leaving the poor, lonely messages in my Inbox until their big puppy eyes bug me too much and I have to let them go. Best to avoid the situation altogether, whether it makes me a bad friend or not. Regardless of the fact that I receive a paltry one to two personal emails a week, I check my email as if the log-on process was part of the rosary. It's no longer a conscious activity. Every now and then I'll notice my fingers deftly keying my username and password on the steering wheel, the kitchen table, the elevator doors. Could the constant movements of my fingers be harnessed as a power source? Could the city hook me up to some device that would provide free electricity to the needy? Would they change the password rules to force me to use more characters when there's a shortage?

See below

Rhapsody allows you to blog playlists. At first glance, this strikes me as awesome. Subsequent glances, though, give me a strangely dissatisfied feeling in that part of my brain that knows what 'cool' means, and what it feels like to use cool as a weapon. The easiest way to do this is to like punk music. If you are one of the twisted individuals who think punk bands, the basis of whose genre is not knowing how to play one's instrument, are capable of making quality music, you no doubt have allowed yourself the satisfying evil of naming punk bands when backed into a corner by someone else's coolness. "I was listening to The Posers the other day...". Knowing music that someone else doesn't returns instant cred.

The blogged playlist is the shock-and-awe weapon in this kind of warfare. The reason to blog a Rhapsody playlist is to give people quantifiable evidence of one's own coolness.

Okay, that might be a tad much. I'm sure there are benevolent Rhapsody users out there who share their picks out of some kind of altruistic charity. They think you might like it. I argue that even these Mothers Teresa of the Rhapsody community would find it hard to deny that some part of them thinks they are the cool ones, and want to drive it home to you, you sorry sucker.


RHAPSODY Link

Temet nosce

The Lord of the Rings movies took me on a bit of a rollercoaster ride. I approached them with trepidation and hope, since my love of the work had already been well established. The first movie disappointed. The second disgusted. The third finally satisfied. Purism is the source for this. I had many problems with deviations in Fellowship, but was slapped in the face by the travesty that was Two Towers. Return of the King stayed close enough to the original to get the thumbs-up.

I'm a pretty big fan of the Lord of the Rings novels, but my first and best love is Star Wars. And here's the situation I find myself in: Episode I disappointed. Episode II disgusted. And now Peter Jackson has set me up for heartbreak. Try as I might to be all "it's gonna suck", there remains a small corner of my mind that hopes for a repeat. I saw the Episode III trailer yesterday, and it sure didn't help. Take out that Yoda/Palpatine lightsaber nonsense and it looks like it might just be okay. By which I mean "I can barely keep myself seated from the excitement".

One would think I would have learned from The Matrix.

For Everything

Several firsts last night. First time seeing an AHL game. First time the Amerks played in front of a crowd that large. First time Manchester lost this season. First time I took a picture of an Australian and his kids. First time I have given very serious consideration to physically threatening a child for screeching at the back of my head.

What is a gentleman to do in this situation? You're at a sporting event and a child is sitting behind you. This child's head is at the same height as yours. He insists on making a prolonged, high-pitched Emergency Broadcast System test noise directly into your ear at every possible opportunity. Once the inevitable headache begins and mere annoyance has been augmented by physical discomfort, how does one proceed? Tell the kid to shut up? Ask the parents to keep him quiet?

I opted to make frustrated faces and rub my eyes a lot. The adult stewards of this brat seemed to catch on, as they suggested he use a deeper voice to scream. I think they told him to make a lion noise or something. "Use your lion voice, honey! Rrrawwrr! Go Ducks!" They may have saved a child's life.

By definition, monarchs rule.

New PC came in today, but there's not enough time to get it all set up before I leave for the game. It's just sitting there, quietly waiting for its life's great work to begin, a minature monolith left by the peoples of Alex past as a testament to their hope for future Alexes. I'm a little nervous about running XP from home for the first time, warren as it is for viruses and other tricksy ghoulies.

Yes, I said "game" by the way. Your eyes do not deceive you. Going to catch an AHL game tonight. So there.

No. Jump good.

On an obligatory supply run, I came across a trove of treasure: a bin full of $1 DVDs. And not the kind of DVD's you would expect in a bin of that price. Not ill-conceived movies featuring actors whose tenure on the A list passed quickly and quietly in the early nineties, but scores of short collections of old cartoons. Really old. That Popeye where Bluto is Sinbad. Felix the Cat. Something called "Tom and Jerry", but which bears no resemblance to the blue cat and big-eared mouse.

And Superman.

The original cartoon serials, in which giant magnets pull comets from the sky and into the darkened streets of Metropolis. In which scientists are mad, police are well-intentioned but foolish, and large automobiles are at constant risk of great fiery catastrophe. I'm pretty sure Superman can't even fly in these, but simply jumps very well. The animation itself is not of great quality compared to later advances, but the look is unmistakably cool. It is the truest representation of the American avatar. If you don't like them, you are not a rational person. Your very existence causes me to question the underlying assumptions of modern Western thought. Get out of my sight.

Oh my.

I spent an hour and a half this evening trying to get a connection going between my brother's PC and mine so we could play some XWA. (Not the aforementioned brother, denizen of the geekiest place possible (and I don't mean "ever" or "on earth"; I mean actually possible as defined by the absolute laws of the universe. Oh, that's right. Nested parentheses. What's up now?!) , but his twin, who may just be a tad geekier, but whose apartment is only mildly geeky.) On any other night, I'd be pissed. But on this Election Night, I know I'd just end up following a very frustrating day at work with hours of checking the latest counts, try as I might to pretend I don't care. An hour and a half of browsing the web while making an ill-informed suggestion now and then via IM was a welcome distraction from swirling graphics of elephants, donkeys, and greens.

Move along

I've added a list of links to the blogs of people who have commented on here on B A Start. Go check 'em out!

I've also noted that all of the descriptions under the Links section sound pretty funny if you put ", bitch!" after them.

And Other Punctuation

That time has come again, right on schedule. I am an avid blood donor. Every eight weeks I walk down to the Pheresis department and let them poke holes in me until they've had their fill. And they do so love my blood. O positive, and of an excellent year.

As is always the case, I have spent the remainder of the day hungry, cold, and snappish. I've had a lot to eat, have zero patience, and feel steady a resignation towards enduring this latest bout of post-bloodloss grumpiness, making free to tell all I meet that I have given blood and am not to be messed with today. In short, by donating blood with such regularity, I have built a menstrual cycle into my life.

The Happy Working-grounds

Brought some work home this weekend. As I sat at my home PC, typing away at a decent clip, I noticed several things. My phone did not ring. I received no email. I heard no distracting noises. No one came to see me. I found these non-events to have a positive impact on my work. This led me to the natural conclusion that so many of us are coming to in this modern era: I should tell my boss I want to work from home.

Imagine it! I could still check my email via the web portal. I have a home phone. I have been tethered with a work pager. Set up one day a week as Alex-works-from-home-you-losers Day and watch in bewilderment as my productivity soars! A full day with no meetings, and during which I decide how available to make myself. I swear I could do a week's worth of work in a single day if loosed from the cube.

Here's the thing. What am I doing right now? Does this look business-related? That Xbox sure doesn't either. I have a feeling the "just one more level" lunch-break would be the end of my career.

Blown to smithereens

On my way to a Halloween party. I'm going dressed as the Invisible Man. I have three primary concerns:

#1 - Comfort. Just how long is it going to be before I turn into Formerly Invisible Man?
#2 - Vision. Dark glasses + bandaged face + Halloween decor = necessity to find a comfortable seat and stay there. I am good at this.
#3 - Recognition. Not really looking forward to a bunch of people I don't know coming up to me and trying to guess if they know me or not. Also not looking forward to people who know me ignoring me out of shyness / spooked-outedness

Nonetheless, I have faith that this will all work out just fine. Unless a spark from the fire hits the alcohol-laden bandages around my mouth. I'll keep you posted.

Not angelic at all

Somehow, this post is not going to be about the Red Sox. It's not going to be about memories of Boggs and the Rocket from my childhood, about the unparalleled quality of the hotdogs at Fenway, or about the propriety of breaking a curse during a lunar eclipse. No, it's going to be about competition of a completely different, if not totally opposite, kind.

I have this problem with smack-talk. I mean "problem" as used in "drinking problem", referring to an inability to resist which leads to widespread issues in one's life. While I have yet to miss work due to smack-talk or start talking smack first thing when I wake up, I fear for my future.

Now, at this point one might ask "this smack, what do you talk it about?". The answer comes as a single word: Halo. Developed by Bungie, distributed by Microsoft, devoured by the American videogame-playing populace, this title is the new touchstone for games where you shoot your friends again and again. This is where my smack-talk has reached its finest. I don't mean "fine" as in "of high quality", while that is certainly the case. I mean "fine" as in "very small in size, weight, or thickness". The smack-talk becomes so fine it infiltrates your entire surroundings. It's in your hair, in the wrinkles in your clothes. That tickling in your nostrils? It's my smack-talk.

This has gotten me into trouble from time to time. Not bar-fight trouble, as I assume is obvious, but eternal-geek-shame trouble. After all this tooting of one's own horn, one had better be able to put up some big numbers. Fortunately for me, I am.

Just yesterday a friend told me his roommate and another friend had been hitting the Halo pretty hard recently. I promptly instructed him to tell them to call me next time they fire it up so I could show those ladies how the game is played. I may or may not have stated that the way I pistol-whip them will be unorthodox. Today I received the obligatory "heard you were talking smack" email, confirming that a scrimmage would be arranged, and that right quick. Now the quandary -- can I beat these guys? I mean, they're pretty sharp.

I feel confident. After all, I just came out of spring training; I stayed at my brothers place a couple weekends ago. I walked in, and five guys were Haloing it up. And these dudes are turbo-geeks in the way a tsunami is a turbo-ripple. Where do you find a bunch of grown men getting together for some good-natured competition, and where the beer should be only Mountain Dew is found? Where do you see not one, but two Xboxes with the full cast of Red vs. Blue represented? Where do people get verbally abusive when someone brings up the works of Lovecraft, because they're so tired of it being worked into some dice-and-paper game? My brother's apartment, that's where. And thus, where does one go to hone the mad Halo skills? I think you know. If I could hold my own there, I can talk as much smack as I damn well please.

Note: I almost made it five whole days without talking about videogames. Stand in awe.

Parking Paranoia

My issue is two-fold. I have no memory, since I rarely pay attention to what I do. Also, I appear to have some kind of issue with spatial relationships which prevents me from parallel parking in anything remotely resembling a timely fashion. These do not combine well, especially when it comes to locating my car.

Since I have troubles parking, I often end up farther from my home than makes sense to normal people. When I do finally park, I am inevitably lost in thought and the surroundings of the vehicle do not make into long-term memory. Thus, even the smallest of errands becomes an adventure, each beginning with the fabled Search for the Grand Am. On any given morning, my car could be anywhere in a half-mile radius.

This has led to many near-fatal events, to date all of which have entailed my heartrate steadily increasing as each step fails to put a silvery bumper into view. Clearly someone stole it. They ignored the Club and took off with my ride. Did I forget to lock it? Where's the number for my insurance company? Did I remember to renew it? Did I leave my PDA in the glove compartment? Could some vagabond have absconded with all of my valuable personal contact information? I knew I should have set a password! Et cetera.

Now, you may ask why I don't just hit the keyless entry and look for the blinking headlights or the popped trunk. I might even hit that red button with the bugle on it; to Hell with the neighbors! This seems like a fine plan, but I remind you, gentle reader, that these contraptions only work for like forty feet. A friend of mine recently showed me the "head-antenna" trick, which extends the range a bit at the cost of only two childhood memories per use. Even with this, my car is almost surely out of range. I am doomed to tread the byways and lots of this Earth for all of my days.

Fortunately, I am sure to be thinking of something more interesting at the time.

The theme song is now stuck in my head.

Can anyone explain to me why the unflappable stick of gum in the Extra commercials has a Scottish accent? We all know accents are funny, but Scottish? Are the Scots known for their endurance? What percent of the American TV-viewing populace has opinions of Scotsmen which are not founded on Braveheart or Duck Tales? Is Scottish one of the few accents one can use without offending a whole lot of people? How did this brainstorming session go?

"He's gotta have an accent. Accents make people laugh."
"Pakistani? People love Apu..."
"Surfer. I say surfer. You know, like 'gnarly dude'."
"I know what 'surfer' means. Don't surfers 'crash out' or something, though? We don't want our product associated with crashing. Out."
"Scotch!"
"It's 'Scottish'."
"Yeah, whatever. He can call people 'lassie' and stuff."
"Great thinking, Wilson!"

I really wanted to put the term 'caber toss' in there somewhere, but I couldn't work it out. Sorry, folks.

Spaceman

I had a meeting at 7 in the AM today. As you may have guessed from the fact that I am commenting on it, this is highly unusual. I watched four slightly different riffs on the same software demo for five and a half hours straight. Perhaps not surprisingly, I drank way too much coffee. Here's what I remember:

6:45 - Best parking spot of my career.

7:00 - Enter the meeting, wondering why in the name of all that is just there's no coffee.

8:00 - Done sucking down the instant coffee I brought from home. Nervous about the future.

9:00 - Session 1 ends. Coffee has arrived. Take back all the awful things I thought about the meeting organizer. Okay, almost all.

10:00 - I make a bet with myself to see if I can hold still for five minutes. Forget about the bet completely fifteen seconds and three pants adjustments later.

10:03 - Remember the bet. Wonder what I've been doing with my hands. Peer over my shoulder anxiously to see just exactly who now knows I'm a complete lunatic.

10:06 - Can no longer even pretend to hold still. Try breathing deeply to relax. Begin to have difficulty keeping my eyes open. Start holding my breath, unsure if I was holding it before.

10:10 to noon - No idea.

12:10 - Note that the time passes faster when I breathe deeply. Wonder if that means I was asleep.

12:25 - Bolt.

Promises

Last night, as I watched Game 1 of the World Series, a commercial for some bank came on. This guy went around to people's desks showing the audience all the cool stuff the bank's new ATM's can do. He then showed someone dragging money between accounts with the touchscreen and said, "Would you like a bank that can do that? We're working on it." Not two seconds after, some IT guy somewhere dropped his Heineken and screamed to that friend of his who likes baseball, "What?!?! Working on it?!?! That's my project! We're in early development and he's demoing the product during the WORLD SERIES?!?!? You know what he just showed the world? A slide from Steve's Powerpoint presentation!" The last anyone has seen of him was the jittering of his hand as he read a new text-message on his pager while slamming the door to his Pontiac Vibe. He accelerated rapidly, and plateaued at 35 mph.