I get the best mail

I get the best mail about the coolest products. If you don't believe me, check out this and especially THIS.

Head cold. Stuffed up. Sinuses

Head cold. Stuffed up. Sinuses in constant state of draining.

This is what the walking dead feel like.

I'm going to apply: Counter

I'm going to apply:
Counter Intelligence Agent
ACS Defense, Inc.
Honolulu, Hawaii
http://www.flipdog.com/js/jobdetails.html?ID=9268852&linkBack=%2Findex.html

My lovely friend Heather has

My lovely friend Heather has a blog she calls The Lauren Tewes Fan Page! even though it never mentions Lauren Tewes, and it now has a new design, which is much easier on the eyes. And she even mentions the Squished Frog Blog there, which is just sweet of her. Visit it: she's a great writer, and the only thing wrong with this page (now that it doesn't have a picture of Tewes as a backdrop) is that she doesn't write enough.

The Tale of the Tractor, Part II

The Tale of the Tractor, Part II

Don’t read this until you read Part I (below, or click the link).

After we got the lawn tractor home, the weather was still nice out, especially for the beginning of December. One afternoon I started it up and was driving it around the front yard, getting a feel for it. My neighbor across the street, a retired cop named Marty, came over and was admiring it. I told him how I was hoping to get a plow to go on the front of it so I could use it to clear the driveway this winter when the big snows hit. He was pretty impressed.

Plowing snow was probably my secret ambition in having a tractor all along. I consider myself the mortal enemy of snow in all its forms, and I long to eradicate it when it comes into my path. I’ve owned a Cub Cadet snow thrower for about five years and it had worked flawlessly, helping me cut through up to 4 foot high drifts after being plowed in numerous times. In my mind, a 14-horse tractor with a plow was an unstoppable behemoth that no drift could hope to survive.

Christmas came, and with it came a plow blade to mount on the front of the tractor, courtesy of my widdle brudder. Bonny and I didn’t get back home to Massachusetts until after New Year’s Eve, as we had to stick around town for my father’s retirement party that same night. By then, the snow had official hit. Our neighbor down the street with the backhoe had dug out our drive while we were gone, but not knowing that, I went next door to our neighbors, Ann and Jori, to thank them for clearing it. They told us me they hadn’t done it.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I just got a plow for the front of my lawn tractor, so pretty soon I’ll be able to plow this stuff for all of us.”

That was the emptiest promise I’ve made since I last went to Weight Watchers with a pocket full of M&Ms.

Last winter, I was still working at Access Magazine, so I left the house around 7am and didn’t get back until about 6pm, so it was already dark. That meant working on the tractor out doors was impossible except on weekends. Yet work on it I did: for the next three weekends, I spent time laying on my back in the snow in the yard, first removing the dual-blade mowing deck, then slowly putting together the parts needed to mount the snow plow blade. My brother would have put it all together without ever consulting the instructions, but I’m my father’s son: I was huddled over the manual with each bolt, washer, and stray piece of metal carefully placed on the work bench, making sure I put it all together as carefully as possible, ready to have an aneurism if a piece was missing. I also put chains (another Xmas gift… my family saw me coming) on the tires – I had to download instructions from the Internet explaining how to get them on, but I did it. Thus, I had traction.

By the third weekend of January, my plow was built and mounted to the tractor. I knew exactly how Homer felt when he became “Mr. Plow,” but I didn’t get Linda Ronstadt to sing to me. It was a nice feeling, nevertheless. No snow could stand in my way now. I got the tractor out of the back yard and parked at the head of the driveway, covered with two tarpaulins (I couldn’t get it into my shed because I hadn’t been able to put a ramp on that would accommodate), awaiting the next big snowfall.

When it arrived, I suited up in my fleece pullover, water proof-gloves, EarGrips, and Steger Mukluks. I ran outside with glee I hadn’t felt in snow for some time. I shook the snow off the tarps and revealed the gleaming red tractor, it’s black snow blade still pristine in the morning sun. I climbed aboard, set the choke, turned the key—

And got a fat-lot of nothing. It wouldn’t even turn over. The cold had apparently drained the battery of all will to live. I went to Sears and got a Diehard tractor battery (the clerk was not impressed when I asked him why they named their batteries after a Bruce Willis movie), and put it in.

Still nothing. Thinking maybe the batteries from the store don’t come charged, I went and got my portable battery charger (that’s the kind of thing people buy the mechanically un-inclined… things to help them start engines) and an extension cord, hooked it up and tried to jump start it. Problem was, the tractor won’t start with the seat up, and the seat had to be up because the battery is under it and the charger clamps were attached. I delicately tried to get this operation underway and seemed to be getting somewhere when I turned the key...

And it broke off in my hand.

I ended up clearing the evil white stuff with my trusty snow thrower.

A week later I was still trying to fix this. I’d bought a new ignition switch at Sears, hoping it would fit, but when hooked up, it didn’t seem to do anything. I found a company on the Web that sold Western Auto ignitions, and bought one for about $20 more than I paid at Sears. That one still did nothing. I finally gave in and called a repair guy. He came to our house with a flatbed trailer, strapped the tractor to it, and took it away.

A week later he dropped the tractor off in working condition. It seems the ignitions switches had to be rewired. Okay, fine, at least it was something I could never have figured out. He’d also given the tractor a complete once over and tune up. So I paid the man $150 bucks (yeah, ridiculous) and sent him on his way.

It didn’t snow for a while. When it did, I was suited up again.

And again, the motherless piece of crap tractor wouldn’t start. I sat there for probably an hour, trying everything I could think of to coax it to life.

This kept on for a month. Every few days I’d go out, kick the tires, and make a half hearted attempt at getting it started. It never worked. As more snow came and piled upon the old, the snow thrower got a work out. Eventually I just let it bury the tractor. Then the thrower got a flat tire. So, I called my new favorite small engine repair guy and he came again with his flatbed trailer. This time I had him take the snow thrower and the tractor. He got them both running for $180.

By now it was coming close to April. I figured the snow was not going to hold out. But we had one more storm. So, again with my armament against the elements, I trundled forth to do battle.

Lo and behold.

It started.

I threw her into second gear and moved forward. I lowered my plow blade to scrap clean my drive of the evil of solid precipitation, and planned to banish from my site the drift at the end which the city plows used to try and ensnare me. With the power of 14 horse under me, I would be free. FREE.

When I hit that unyielding drift of snow, the tractor stopped so fast, it was as if I was on a mechanical bull. Instead of being thrown clear and landing in soft, fluffy snow, I was luckily behind the steering wheel which connected with my groin with such force that all the air in my body left, only to be replaced by the exquisite pain that can only come from a crotch-related injury.

---

When summer came around, I pulled the plow blade off and spend a few hours one day getting the mowing deck re-attached. I’d cleaned it up with a steel brush, wiped it down with used motor oil (a trick I was told will keep it in good shape if I do it each year), and put brand new grass cutting blades on. I used the tractor all summer for mowing the lawn and never had a problem.

The reason I decided to tell the Tale of the Tractor: a couple weekends ago, I spend a day getting the outside of my house prepared for the Winter of 2001-2002. It’s November after all, and in New England the snow could have come as early as September. Of course, for the last two weeks, it’s been about 55°F. Gorgeous.

I got the snow thrower out and made sure it was running. I winterized our push mower, drained the gas, changed the air filter, etc. Then I took the tractor out of the shed, where it fit quite nicely all summer (once I put my new ramp on the front), and took the mowing deck off – a unique experiment in pain, considering how many times I pinched myself trying to pull out the 20 odd cotter pins that held it in place. I debated doing it, but finally I couldn’t help myself: I put the plow blade back on the tractor.

Only time will tell if the snows and sleet will win this winter -- or if I’ll be able to crush it under my chained wheels, sans bruising below the belt.

If I've got to be

If I've got to be a disease, I'm happy to be one I can share with my puppies...

Take the Affliction Test Today!

Things that Annoy the Ever-Loving Crap Out of Me #4

Drivers who don't take the right-of-way. There is no more important aspect of driving than knowing right-of-way. Everything else is spelled out for you: where to stop, when to go, turns and yeilds, etc. But knowing when you have right-of-way -- when YOU are in control -- is far more important because it relies on you, the driver, to use your brain. If you have right-of-way, and you give it up to, oh, I dunno, say, wave someone out of a driveway on your left: You're an ass. I know, you think you're being nice. Well, you're nice and stupid.

I'm easily getting 25 copies

I'm easily getting 25 copies of the new W32.Badtrans.B@mm worm e-mailed to me a day. If you use Microsoft Outlook 97, 2000, or 2002, and you don't have virus protection, you're either stupid, or lazy, or both.

I'm both.

I hadn't put Norton on my new Windows XP install when it started coming in, and was only saved at first because of the latest "feature" of Outlook 2002, which doesn't let you open up attachments with certain extentions like, oh, say, .EXE or .PIF, or anything executable or with a script in it. It was annoying at first, and I found some shareware to get around it, but, well, it did what it was supposed to and saved me. So I guess I should say it....

Thank you, Microsoft!

(The selling of my soul is now complete. See you all in Hell. I'll be on level 7, where they do the bobbing for french fries in the scalding hot grease.)

The Tale of the Tractor, Part I

I don’t have much love for the internal combustion engine.

Growing up, spending every weekend at my grandparent’s farm, I had cousins and an uncle and a brother and a mother and a grandfather who thought nothing of oiling a chain saw or pulling the skin off a VW to make a make-shift dune buggy or buying a cheap motorcycle (that I drove into the side of the porch because I didn’t know where the break was) or whatever.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t grasp them. I think it really struck me that I was destined not to be a mechanic when I took a test in high school (I think it was the ACT) that actually measured my mechanical aptitude and all I got was an 80 out of 100… all the other areas of the test I was in the 90s.

Ask me a question about math or writing and I was okay, but ask me about pulleys and fulcrums and I was hopeless. It translated perfectly into how much I just don’t get engines.

I’m a home owner now, and a car owner for over a decade now, and so I’ve had to pick up some things. I know spark plus have to be properly “gapped,” that you need to worry when green fluid leaks, and that not all bad engine noises can be drowned out by the radio.

Nothing I learned in years of driving and mowing a lawn and throwing snow prepared me for what I went through last winter when I became the owner of a used Western Auto Wizard 14 horse power lawn tractor.

The tractor wasn’t too old. Bonny’s late grandfather bought it sometime in the 1990s, and with her grandmother moving off the family farm last year, she no longer needed it. So, we got it at a bargain basement price of $300. It was a good deal, and I was getting sick of following around the mower on our acre or so of lawn.

Then we hit our first stumbling block: how the hell to get the beast from Oneonta, NY, to Hudson, MA? There was some talk of trying to fit it into the back of our Ford Explorer, but not only would that not have worked, I’m betting the two Labradors might have complained. It would have been nice if someone in my family with a pickup truck volunteered, but my dad was working crazy hours before he retired, my father-in-law had to work, same for my brother. It was decided for us though: Bonny was also going to get an antique dresser from the farm, so we had to get a trailer to bring everything home.

I got a ball hitch for the Explorer and on the Sunday after Thanksgiving of 2000, we arrived around 8am at our first destination, the Oneonta U-haul franchise. There I paid the $125 to rent the trailer and bought the wiring harness that would be needed to hook up the trailer and thought we’d be all set. Except for one problem: it was raining and the trailer was out in a big puddle mud. I tried to get the harness hooked up, then the kid who helped in the store tried, and neither of us could get the lights to work. After 40 minutes of fiddling, we said, screw it, we’ll be driving in the daylight all the way, so don’t worry about it. We got the Uhaul hooked up, sans lights, and hit the road.

Next stop, Grandma’s house. We loaded the tractor first, using a couple of planks from the barn to roll it in as the rain turned to mist, and I strapped it in as tight as I could. The dresser went in next and was strapped to the side, all drawers in. We hit the road, and the mist turned to rain, then fog, then fog with rain, and the drive turned to hell. The usual six and a half hour drive on one of the busiest travel days of the year slowly stretched out too eleven. By the time we hit the Mass Pike, it was dark, and we had no lights on the trailer. Fear was rampant in the cabin of the Explorer.

But that was the easy part.

We finally got home and I figured I’d try to back the trailer in to the driveway so we could get everything out easy. Ha. No dice. I tried to back the trailer up once, from a slight angle to the drive, but it started to turn at an angle, and I couldn’t get it straight no matter how I crimped the wheel. I ended up going around the block so I could get it at the correct angle. I pulled into my neighbor’s drive across the street, thinking I could just back straight up, but as soon as the trailer hit the crown of the street, it started drifting to the right again. I didn’t see it, so Bon, outside of the car, started yelling “Stop, stop, what are you trying to do?”

“What?” I screamed back?

“Jesus, you’re going to wreck the car by letting it hit the trailer!”

”Fine, you wanna *&#@ing drive it then?”

Imagine, if you will, the two newest people on the block screaming at each other at the top of their lungs in the middle of the evening for about five minutes, illuminated only by one street light as they threaten each other with bodily harm and worse because they should never, ever, have tried to tow anything, it was the stupidest damn thing they’d ever done.

I drove around the block again to straighten it out, and this time I parked on the street and unloaded everything. During the drive, the antique dresser had come unstrapped from the wall and fallen over on the tractor. This is my first public admission of that fact, and guess what, I don’t feel one ounce of guilt, because no one ever noticed anything wrong! Woo-hoo!

I got the tractor out, and wheeled it up to the head of the dive way, threw a tarp over it, and left it. I didn’t even want to think about at that point.

Little did I know, the worst was yet to come…

Things that Annoy the Ever-Loving Crap Out of Me #3

Twist ties. Same goes for those little plastic doohickies that clip on the bread bag. I recognize that they server a higher purpose of keeping bread fresh, but you know what, you can spin the bag of bread and put it down with the end curled under the bread, and guess what: still fresh. Keeping a thousand and one twist ties around the house "just in case" you'll need them makes me nuts.

It doesn't matter if it's

It doesn't matter if it's good
It only matters if it rocks -- Tenacious D

BSOD

Hi there. Miss me?

So the day before Thanksgiving, my main workstation, my home built Pentium III 1GHz with dual-monitors and all the gee-gaws, decide it no longer wanted to go online. Despite my best efforts, and those of Joe through the phoneline, and the prayers of millions, my computer just would not go online without resorting to a BSOD: Blue Screen Of Death. It was frustrating as hell, but not unexpected. I always expect the worst with Windows (and no, I doubt any other OS would be any better.)

Joe and I remarked upon the strange fact that years ago, a computer by itself was more than enough. But now, if you've got a computer without an Internet connection, it's practically useless. PCs without the Internet are like dancing about architecture.

So, Thursday, the holiday, I decided to ignore it all day. But by 7:30, after I was stuffed with fowl and wine, I decided to show the computer who was boss. I backed up everything on to my FireWire Maxtor Drive (thanks, Lauren!) and figured I'd try to upgrade over Windoze 2000 to WinXP. I had a free copy from MS and need to be working with it anyway.

The upgrade didn't take. Some file didn't get installed and every time the PC restarted to go into XP, it wouldn't work. So, screw it, said I, and I nuked the entire hard drive and installed XP from scratch on Friday night, after a day of holiday shopping.

This morning I'v been spending getting my PC up and running. The Web connection on the modem is back (I couldn't use the USB modem I wanted as it's not XP compatible). Luckily I found XP drivers for my dual-monitor graphics card, my scanner, and my wheel mouse. None for my printer, but it seems to be working okay with the 2000 drivers. I'm running Windows update now and it's got some sort of unexplained Pentium III update which I'm installing because I'm a trusting fool. Sound card is working fine, but I'm grabbing the new driver for that too.

My day will be spent installing Microsoft Office so I can get my email back up and running, and then Macromedia Dreamweaver, so I can do my Web job.

XP definitely looks nicer than previous, tho I'm amazed that MS wants no buttons at all on the desktop, compared to previous version. It's a nice change, tho. I'm worried that my VPN client for work won't function under XP, and, duh, I forgot to back up my IE Favorites, but I only go to blogs all the time anyway so it's probably not a big loss.

All in all, by tomorrow morning, I hope to up and running better than ever. But this is a computer. And by actually typing that, the computer knows I'm thinking it, and thus will punish me. Because that's what computers do.

This is the latest news

This is the latest news from my old homestead at Ziff Davis. I once thought I'd be a lifer there. But it looks like Steph's going to be.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: STEPHANIE CHANG NAMED EXECUTIVE EDITOR OF PC MAGAZINE

NEW YORK, Nov. 15, 2001 — Michael J. Miller, editor-in-chief of PC Magazine, announced today the appointment of Stephanie Chang to Executive Editor of PC Magazine, one of the world's leading technology magazines. Chang joins Miller and executive editors Ben Gottesman and Stephanie Izarek in leading the editorial operations of the magazine, known for its authoritative, labs-based comparative reviews of technology products and services.

"Stephanie Chang is a well-respected journalist who brings to our editorial staff extensive knowledge of how technology is used to help businesses and consumer become more productive," said Michael J. Miller. "Her qualifications and leadership will help drive the editorial content of the magazine."

Stephanie Chang has been a journalist since graduating with a Bachelor of Science degree from Northwestern University's Medill School of Journalism in 1981. Prior to joining PC Magazine, Chang was the founding editor of Access magazine and senior vice president of Access Media Inc. Access, a weekly magazine about the Internet and personal technology, was distributed in newspapers nationwide. As Senior Vice President, Chang oversaw the editorial operations of the company, which included a Web site and book publishing division...

Music Soothes this Savage Beast

Music Soothes this Savage Beast

At Kyouki’s Weblog this week, we were asked to: List your TOP FIVE FAVORITE albums, cds, records, tapes, or a-tracks and tell me why! So I thought I’d repeat my post here.

My favorite albums change on a yearly basis. For example, I used to listen to the soundtrack from the movie Popeye when I was a kid, over and over again, on my little phonograph that my parents bought used at an auction at the local elementary school when it shut down. You know the kind: a big, gray suitcase looking unit with a speaker built right into the front. But, would I count Popeye among my favorite albums? I wouldn’t even count it as a great movie. After about 1945, most of his cartoons sucked ass, too. But I digress.

Okay, so I’ll try to list my top five albums of all time. I’m not including my current obsession with Tenacious D. I think my love affair with The D might be short lived. They’re like Chinese food – gobble it down, but then you need to be away for a while. Now, these are my top five of ALL TIME, so they include some I haven’t listened to in years, but I know I could still sing along with.

1) Pink Floyd: The Wall When I was a freshman in college, I was hijacked by my dorm-mates to go over to Cornell and watch an evening showing of the film, The Wall, directed by Alan Parker. My high school buddies used to watch it, but I blew it off because I shared few tastes when them when it came to music, so I figured Pink Floyd was not my cup of tea. But the movie blew me away. I’d never before experienced story telling like that. The movie was good, but the album I got later as a gift from one of those dorm-mates, was better (Roger Waters sings better than Bob Geldof).

2) Barenaked Ladies: Gordon I love this group. And this album exemplifies why.

3) Superman: The Movie John William’s greatest score. Listening to it today, I still think a man can fly.

4) Mary Poppins I think I knew how to spell Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious before I could spell my last name. Loved the song, the movie, and sat at my grandmother’s house listening to it for hours and hours and hours, since she had the album and my Mom didn’t.

5) My god, what do I pick? The Beatle’s Help? Monty Python Sings? The Original Broadway Cast Album for The Music Man? Britney’s first album? Sara McLachlan’s Stumbling Toward Ecstasy?

I have to go with Billy Joel’s The Stranger. My friend Mark, or maybe it was his dad, once remarked that it was an almost perfect album, with every song worth hearing over and over again. I couldn’t agree more.

Things that Annoy the Ever-Loving Crap Out of Me #2

The "Tupperware" drawer (that's what we called it growing up, since you only stored food in Tupperware in the 1970's, tho today it's a mix of plastic containers) is always out of hand! Every month it must be reorganized and all Chinese food containers must be purged.

Go read my wife Bonny's

Go read my wife Bonny's blog at her site, Words@Work. She wants to be adored, much like me. I keep telling her, there's room in the hearts of America for only one person in this house, but she'd determined to usurp my audience.

I can't stop listening to

I can't stop listening to Tenacious D! I don't even think they're that funny. Their lyrics are not good. But they ROCK SO HARD, and I can't stop listening. Grrr...

I was at the grocery

I was at the grocery store today buy some stuff, and saw a cake. I like cake.

(Fond childhood memories: My grandmother lived on a farm all her life, and was a great cook. She was the first person I ever saw make pizza from scratch and she made mind-numbling huge meals each weekend when the whole family was there usually one and sometimes both weekend days: that breaks down to usually 1 great grandmother, 2 grand parents, 4 aunts/uncles plus my mom (Dad usually had to work), my brother, me, and usually around 4 cousins. Add on some guests, cousins bring friends, etc., and we could easily have a few regular 20 person meals at the gigantic table in grandma’s kitchen. Grandma made great cakes, but better yet she made great frosting, and I still to this day blame her for my overwhelm love of frosting far more than the cake.)

So I saw this cake at the Shaw’s bakery and thought, I should get one for the party tonight. Bon and I are driving into Somerville to a going-away party for Stephanie, my boss from Access, who started a job working as executive editor of PC Magazine in New York City. That means actually moving to NYC, unfortunately, because Ziff-Davis Media, my old homestead, still doesn’t grasp the whole telecommuting thing. Admittedly, Steph’s going to be management and that would make it hard, but hell, my current boss lives in Minnesota. I don’t even know what he looks like.

So I picked out a cake and had them write “So Long, Steph” on it.

At the check out, the hyper-friendly check out person was scanning my stuff in as I unloaded the cart and I heard her say, “Uh, oh!”

“What’s that?” I said?

“Steve’s leaving,” she told me.

In my inimitable way I said: “Huh?”

“It says right here: ‘So Long, Steve.’ Must be he’s leaving.”

“Oh,” I said. “Yes, he is. I’ll miss him. Oh, and plastic bags are fine."

Dammit. I just read at

Dammit. I just read at Wired that TechTV has laid off 130 workers. I guess it shouldn't be a surprise in a world that can't sustain any kind of company that a cable channel that's only about technology should go under. But then again, why the hell is there a Home and Garden Channel? A cooking channel? A frickin' channel that runs soap operas from the 1970s? How can these things exist and not have room for computer coverage on TV.

I've know people at TechTV -- probably more there than at any other media outlet these days. I hate to see this happen to good people, doing good work, just because some high-muckity-mucks can't make it work. Ray, Leo, Pat, I hope you are all still gainfully employed.... Hard to believe I was hanging out a bit with all three less than a year ago at CES in Vegas, and it seems like Access Magazine was doing great (we wanted Leo to come work for the magazine full time) and TechTV was doing great. Dammit.

Blogging comes in fits and

Blogging comes in fits and spurts. I'm apparently having a fit now, because this small amount of blogging surely can't be considered a spurt, right?

Things that Annoy the Ever-Loving Crap Out of Me #1

The extra ‘safety” cover that comes on Helluva Good French Onion Dip. That stupid piece of plastic never comes off in one piece like it should.

Joe proving his way with

Joe proving his way with a metaphor: "I painted myself into a corner, and threw away the key."

More great wacky searches done

More great wacky searches done here at Squished Frog in the last week:
- 1 for "alf"
- 1 for "anal sac"
- 1 for "aolim icons"
- 1 for "taliban hunter"

Okay, now, I insist -- whoever searched for "alf," I want you to beat yourself severely about the face and neck with a two-by-four. No Melmacians here.

Checkout with Manly Men

I was checking out near the women’s clothing section on the second floor of the LL Bean Retail Store in Freeport (a completely different animal from the factory store --- there’s no bargains to be had in the retail store. SmartWool socks are $14 bucks retail, but only $6 at the factory store. Keep that in mind when shopping for me.). I had stuff for Bonny, my mom, dad, my sister-in-law Jen, and a credit card ready to whimper.

I handed over my card, upon which I’d written “SEE PICTURE ID” instead of signing it. I read somewhere that by doing that, you truly can screw over thieves... unless they look just like you. Considering that I’m a bearded heavy guy in my 30’s, I figure I’m unique on this planet, but why take chances?

I’ve never quite understoon why checkout clerks look at my signature on my card anyway – I guess just to make sure it’s signed. But I truly love the clerks who compare the signature on the card with the signature I make on the receipt. As if they’re handwriting experts with years of training. I’m sure it would hold up in a court of law if Daisy the checkout clerk at Home Depot said, “Why, your honor, his signature on his receipt didn’t match at all! I could tell, because on his license he wrote the letter G with extra loops. And he put a heart over the letter I.”

The guy at LL Bean checking me out was probably in his mid-to-late 60s, nicely coifed and dapper in his blue LL Bean apron. He glanced at the back of my credit card as he waited for the receipt.

“Looks like I have to ask you for a picture ID,” he said. As if it was an order from the card. “See Picture ID—OR ELSE”

“Sure,” I said, sliding him my Massachusetts driver’s license. He was bagging my purchases. And then it clicked with him, I was from Mass.

“So I see your boy’s did well yesterday.”

“Huh?” I said. Always quick with the witty reply, that’s me.

“The Patriot’s whipped them..”

“Oh. Yeah. They sure did!” If you don’t know anything else about me, know this: I don’t follow football. At all. I’d rather let squirrels chew on my testicles before I’d watch a game even from the comfort of my own home. Unless it’s to watch the Bills loose a SuperBowl, that’s always fun.

“Well, I guess they didn’t exactly whip them, but they did win it.”

“That’s all we can ask,” I agreed, signing my receipt.

“They finally go them selves a [fill in the blank] back, it would appear,” he continued, us being men and all.

“They sure did. I think he’ll go far,” I said, nodding sagely. I’m sure the two of us would make it so with our intense cosmic aura of caring about the Pats.

“Well, you have a good day now.” He told me with a smile, happy to have shared a little moment of camaraderie with a dude. Maybe working check out in the women’s department he didn’t get much of that. So I was glad to have helped.

But next time I’m going to start making up stuff about how I work for the Pats and I heard they all had anthrax.

Men: It’s our New Mantra

Men: It’s our New Mantra

Bon and I were in Dover NH at the Salmon Falls Stoneware outlet store, looking for Christmas gifts. It was wall after wall of pots, crocks, mugs, bowls, clocks, plates, lamps, etc., all in porcelain stoneware glazed gray with blue and green highlights of pictures of ivy, or barrels of grapes, and some birds.

Bonny started buying [product and motif description deleted so as not to spoil xmas]. I couldn't believe it. I thought the design looked like crap, but hey, I also don't really give a rat's ass about crockery.

So, while Bonny walked around filling a basket with the stuff, cooing occasionally "Oh, isn't that beautiful?" or "Wouldn't that look good in our living room? Maybe we should replace our lamps..." I wandered around and held stuff, afraid I’d break something.

There was another couple there, a guy with his girlfriend. I was walking past them with an armload of ceramic pot and overheard the following:

Girlfriend: "What do you think of us getting that?"

Boyfriend: "I like whatever you like."

I like whatever you like.

My god.

Words like that could change a life. And I think they have changed mine.

"I like whatever you like" is my new way of life. Instead of every having to express my own (inevitably) negative sounding opinion about some topic I know is fruitless, I can now simply let loose with this artful piece of spousal capitulation.

Picture the solution to the following sticky problems posed by the wives everywhere:

"Honey, what do you think of these drapes?" she asks...

Instead of saying "Jesus. Tab tops? Floral prints? Why don't I just projectile vomit on the wall?" and then getting the damn tab top floral curtains anyway, just say "I like whatever you like, dear," and go back to the pillows section of Linens & Things for a nap.

"Do you like my hair better up or down?" she asks...

Instead of replying "Well, I like it up so I can molest your neck freely, but I know you'll wear it down anyway, so why are you even asking?" just say "I like whatever you like, dear," and accept that you'll have hair in your mouth by night’s end.

"What would you like for dinner tonight?" she asks...

Instead of telling her what really came to mind -- "I'd like either a bucket of fried fowl made by someone with a military rank. Or cake" -- just say, "I like whatever you like, dear," and get ready for another delicious tofu related meal.

I want "I like whatever you like, dear," (I'm adding the 'dear' to make sure it sounds more “spousal”) to become the next "Where's the Beef?" or "Kiss my grits." I want this saying to be on the lips of ever male of the species ever asked an obviously rhetorical question yet who's expected to give an answer anyway.

Say it with me, boys:

"I like whatever you like, dear."

Death Cloth Vanquished

Death Cloth Vanquished

For all of my life, my socks have been cotton. First picked by slaves and now picked by underpaid migrant workers, hey, it's the "Fabric of our Lives,” you know.

My brother, Paul, calls cotton by two words only: Death Cloth. He would know. He went to college to learn all about forest ranger stuff by surviving in the frozen tundra of Ely, Minnesota (their motto: "Christ, it's cold!"). It snows nine months of the year there.

Paul used to go out and dig holes in the Ely snow drifts and sleep in them. My brother isn’t too bright. But, one thing he did learn early on is that cotton holds moisture and in the cold that means frost bite or gangrene or syphilis or something. Whatever it means, it's bad.

I never took much stock in that, but I've discovered a new kind of sock: SmartWool. I frickin’ love these socks. They're awesome. They’re cushiony, comfy, and come in extra long sizes for skiers. I bought three pair of them for 5 bucks a pop at the LL Bean Factory Store in Freeport, ME, all for me. So much for Xmas shopping.

But I’ve found over the summer even with wool socks that it’s true – they don’t hold the moisture of sweaty feet trapped either in boots or sneakers. And when you get to the point where your wife won’t let you take your sneakers off in the living room because she can’t stand the smell, well, it’s time for drastic solutions. Since I usually spend $5 for a package of six pair of cotton socks, 5 bucks for one pair strikes me as personally quite drastic.

Even so, thank you SmartWool. You might have saved my marriage.

Joke Furniture

Joke Furniture

I just got a subscription for $2 to Maxim. I got it strictly for the pictures. But, I was pleased to find that they also do a couple pages of jokes submitted by readers.

I used to be really, really good at telling jokes. I would memorize almost any joke told to me, practice my delivery, and make an audience of anyone who would listen. This was back in college when I worked in the dining hall as a student manager, so I always had a captive audience while lording it over my student subjects. Especially when we were working on the dish machine on weekends. You need a lot of jokes to make the time go by fast when touching someone else’s unfinished food.

Since college, however, I don't remember jokes. Try as I might, when someone tells me a whopper, I just can't remember all the details later when I find someone to tell. Perhaps it's because my brain is filled with trivia and minutia about more important things like the current TV schedule, how to tell a router from a hub, and how to keep track of my stray single socks that need to be reunited with their mates.

So Bonny and I were on Interstate 95 North in New Hampshire heading toward our weekend of shopping in Maine when we passed one of the gigantic state sanctioned liquor stores that seem to be on every road on the border of the state. It was a Sunday, and on Sunday in Massachusetts, you can't buy alcohol due to the archaic "Blue Laws." Seeing people buy booze on a Sunday was a fascinating new thing for us, especially in the droves that seem to hit these roadside package stores.

"Oh, look, we could get beers on a Sunday!" Bon said. I should point out she said this with mock glee, as she's not the type to want beers on a Sunday. She does all her drinking on Tuesdays.

"Yeah, and they make it so convenient to buy next to a highway!" I said with not a trace of disgust. I couldn't be happier for anyone who wants to Live Free or Die. I guess emphasis on the Die.

And then I remembered a joke.

It was from the latest issue of Maxim. It's not a particularly politically correct little gag -- a riddle actually -- but then again, I'm a firm believer in the rule established by Sam Kinison. Anything can be made funny if done right.

So, based on seeing the liquor store, I remember the joke, and just blurted it out to my wife:

"Hey, uh, what do you call two lesbians locked in a cabinet?"

"Uh. I don't know."

"A lick-her cabinet."

I started to laugh to myself. I crack me up.

Bon was silent.

"Get it? Lick-her? Liquor?"

"You said cabinet already. You should have said something different. Like armoire."

Bonny Georgia Griffith: comedy scholar.

Leaving for ME

Leaving for ME

It was time for our drive to Maine to go holiday shopping. We weren't even a block away from home when the first driver of the day pissed off my wife. I'm a lucky driver in that whenever someone makes a move to cut me off, usurp my right of way, or in anyway dis my driving, Bonny will let fly with some choice epithets -- usually involving words that rhyme with "cluck" -- and I will close my mouth and let the words I was choosing for said driver die on my lips.

We were preparing to make a right turn after the light changed when the guy in the pick-up truck across the intersection whipped out into a left turn and cut us off.

"You dumb clucker," Bonny railed, but with more of an eff sound.

"Oh, what's that say?" I asked. On the back of the truck was an AT&T symbol and the magic words loved by road-rage victims everywhere: 'How's My Driving?' Followed by an 800 number.

We started to cackle together in glee. "You're going down, Mr. Right-of-way-means-nothing!"

Bon wrote down everything on a pad and I let her out to hit the ATM machine to get the cash necessary for a weekend of debauchery and shopping. I grabbed the cell phone and dialed.

A woman answered: "Driving look out. Do you have the tag number."

They work fast, I guess. I read her the unique ID number that had been listed on the truck with the toll-free number.

"And where did this take place?"

"In Hudson, MA. He pulled out of an intersection, turning left, and cut me off, while I was trying to make a right."

"Yes, sir. And how's the weather there today?"

Wow, friendly chit chat. These people go the extra mile. Or perhaps she's just one of those people obsessed with knowing the weather everywhere in the world at all times. A budding meteorologist, perhaps. So I told her, "Well, it's kinda cold, but other wise it's pretty nice. A bit cloudy, I think they’re cumulo-nimbus clouds on the horizon. I was just thinking that it's too bad it's not summ--"

"So it's a dry day there? Let me make a note about visibility."

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. No rain."

"Okay, sir, I'll report this and let the safety manager look into it.”

"Okay. Thanks." I hung up. Bon got in, and we headed toward the highway.

"Crap," I said.

"What?"

"I feel guilty now."

"Why? He deserved it. Stupid cluck."

"Yeah, but I mean, did he really deserve me making his life harder? He could get in trouble, fired, whatever. I just feel like, so what, he screwed up. Maybe it wasn't that big a deal."

"Hon, if he did it to you, he's doing cutting off other drivers, too."

"Yeah. I guess. But I reserve the right to feel guilty."

"Let him fry," Bon said.

Before I post anything else,

Before I post anything else, I insist that everyone who visit's this blog now go and visit the new blog of my friend Joe (the guy with the beard in the picture below), Facts are Meaningless. He owes the title to Homer J. Simpson. It's new, but so far it's filled with the same pithy insights into stupidity (his and humanity's) that you would expect here. Maybe they're even better. In which case, forget it, don't go there. Stay here and click refresh a lot and maybe someday I can sell ads on this page and make millions.

Lookit what Joe found.

Lookit what Joe found. This is a picture of the two of us from the Ziff-Davis picnic in 1993. Joe's the one with the spikey hair. And that's me pre-beard. Scary, huh?

I'm now officially a member

I'm now officially a member of the gang posting in the group blog atKyouki.com. Why? Because I've got so much to say I can't say it all here and in a novel that I'll never finish? Or maybe I'm just stupid.

Stop over to see my short essay about what I wanted to be when I grew up. I kind of made it. Sort of. If you don't count the fact that I still don't have super powers. Unless you consider my incredibly fast digestive tract a mutant super-ability.

A long time ago, Bonny

A long time ago, Bonny was a board member with a group called LABMED. All they did was raise money to pay the medical bills of Labrador Retrievers that were in dire straights and had no one else to pay, that is, the dog couldn't actually belong to someone, it had to be in a rescue situation. You'd be surprised about how many hundreds of dogs like that there are. LABMED spends thousands of dollars a year helping dogs born with birth defects, hit by cars, etc. There's similar organizations like it for almost every breed of dog.

While Bon was a part of it, I helped create a new LABMED web site. Eventually, Bonny parted ways with them (they weren't the easiest group to work with), but we occasionally check back in with the group and make a donation or see what's up. For example, this week they're doing their annual LABMED Auction. By a Labrador clock or blanket or whatever, and the money goes to helping the pups.

Anyway, Bon and I just had this conversation:

WifeyPoo: from the LABMED faq:
ECGriffith: hit me
WifePoo: Q: Your web page looks very professional
and is wonderfully maintained. Who designed and maintains your webpages?
A: Our web page was originally designed and written by Eric Griffith. Eric, of Squished Frog Productions (a sort of hobby business) professionally designs webpages in his spare time and helped design and create ours for us. Because his wife, Bonny, was on the Board of Directors at the time, he and she donated their time and talents to our cause. Due to their hard work, vision, and talent our webpages often fool many people into thinking we have a paid staff of web coders at our disposal. Truthfully we do not;
ECGriffith: wow.
WifeyPoo: no kidding.
ECGriffith: that's sweet of them.
ECGriffith: did they link to me?
WifeyPoo: no.
ECGriffith: BASTARDS

found this definition... meme any

found this definition...

meme any expression (usually the smallest/shortest possible) that can convey meaning; an idea, behavior, style, or usage that spreads from person to person within a culture

which is backed up by dictionary.com's definition:

meme (meem)
n.
A unit of cultural information, such as a cultural practice or idea, that is transmitted verbally or by repeated action from one mind to another.
or
in philosophy -- /meem/ [By analogy with "gene"] Richard Dawkins's term for an idea considered as a replicator, especially with the connotation that memes parasitise people into propagating them much as viruses do.
Memes can be considered the unit of cultural evolution. Ideas can evolve in a way analogous to biological evolution. Some ideas survive better than others; ideas can mutate through, for example, misunderstandings; and two ideas can recombine to produce a new idea involving elements of each parent idea.
The term is used especially in the phrase "meme complex" denoting a group of mutually supporting memes that form an organised belief system, such as a religion. However, "meme" is often misused to mean "meme complex".
Use of the term connotes acceptance of the idea that in humans (and presumably other tool- and language-using sophonts) cultural evolution by selection of adaptive ideas has become more important than biological evolution by selection of hereditary traits. Hackers find this idea congenial for tolerably obvious reasons.

I still don't know what that means. I guess this is like saying "Where's the beef?" and having it become a cultural catch phrase.

See, even things that don't require definitions have definitions.

I just took the Blogaholic

I just took the Blogaholic test. These are my results:

56.0% 56.0 points out of 100

AVG SCORE
48.2% 48.2 points out of 100

51 people have taken this silly test so far.
14 people have scored higher than you.
30 people have scored lower than you.
7 people made the same grade as you.

What does this mean? You are a dedicated weblogger. You post frequently because you enjoy weblogging a lot, yet you still manage to have a social life. You're the best kind of weblogger. Way to go!

Could be worse. I could know what a meme is. What the hell's a meme?

Things that must be done:

Things that must be done:
1) Waterproof the back porch stairs before it rains again.
2) Redo the index pages throughout PracNet so they make some sense.
3) Test some products
4) Write my god damn novel. It's been four days. It's languishing. I doubt I'll be anywhere near close to 50k words by even November 2002 at this point.
ARGH.

Ithaca college wrote back to

Ithaca college wrote back to me today about the issue of my and Bonny's listings as being survivors of the WTC. They were sadly very reasonable and apologetic: Mr. Griffith: Thank you for emailing us; unfortunately, we have had many folks contact us and wonder why their names were on the list. What happened is that we got many lists from people in or near the area and they knew of other alumni, personally or indirectly in the vicinty and wanted to alert other class members. No doubt that is how your name ended up on our list and we put it on based on the emailer's good intentions. We are sorry if this caused you any inconvenience and if you like, we can remove it. It was certainly not done to be harmful to you or your wife.

I wrote this back:
Thanks for getting back to me. No harm done. I think it's fine to be listed... I suppose there are a few folks out there who might think I still live there and want to check my status, and perhaps even one or two former classmates who will see that I'm still alive and be upset by my still living.

I Apparently Lived I got

I Apparently Lived

I got an e-mail from my friend Chris this morning -- we were roommates back in college. I haven't talked to him since our friend Giff's wedding back in July. He wrote (among other things), and keep in mind please that the first part of this is comedy:

...are you fucking my wife? It says on the IC website that you and Bonnie are listed "survivors" of the Sept 11 bombing in NY. Since Kari was in NYC that day, I'm curious....

On a serious note - is that true, were you two in the WTC that day???? If so, what kind of dildo roommate wouldn't mention it to his head-in-the-sand Midwestern buddy? Let me know.

Huh?

But it's true. At the Information on Ithaca College Alumni page, both Bonny and I are listed as having survived the collapse of the World Trade Center on 9/11. I can't even begin to comprehend where they got the idea that I was even there... I haven't lived in NYC since 1994.

So I wrote a note to the Ithaca College Alumni Office:

TO: alumni@ithaca.edu SUBJECT: aren't we ALL survivors?

Dear Alumni Office.

I'm Eric Griffith, '92. Apparently my friend and former IC roommate almost had a heart attack this weekend when he saw my name and my wife's name (Bonny Georgia Griffith, '92) listed at alumnews_list.htmamong the survivors of the September 11 attack on the World Trade Center. (My friend also accused me of being in New York City that day to have an illicit rendezvous with his wife, who was apparently in NYC that day, but that's a whole other matter.... he's got issues.)

So, obviously, I did survive the attack since I'm writing you this note. However, I'm curious as to how I came to be listed because I, well, wasn't at the WTC... I was in my pajamas in my house in Massachusetts watching it on CBS and eating a bagel.

I haven't lived in NYC since 1994. So by these criteria, I would assume that all living IC Alums should be listed on the page. But that would be a really big Web page.

Anyway, you can leave us listed if you think it helps, but now that my old roommate has finished panicking, I guess we're okay if you want to take our names down, too.

Best,
Eric G.

I hope they write back.

Today at the movies, my

Today at the movies, my friend Joseph had a large drink. I had just finished my popcorn and asked him if I might have a sip. In the ensuing spillage, I coated my crotch with sticky goodness and ice cubes.

Demonic Possession

Demonic Possession

There's few things my wife is as obsessive about as cleanliness. Her house must be in pristine mint condition with no dust on the appliances or furniture, no dirt on the rugs, no dust-bunnies in the corner, and no dog hair, which is god damn inconvenient when you've got one brown dog and one yellow dog and neither of them seem that attached to their fur. I'm not saying she's a harpy or has a obsessive compulsive disorder -- at least not to her face -- but when company is coming, I always can count on hearing the same words: "We need to pick up around here before [FILL IN THE BLANK] comes." (As any woman might expect, this need for clean is even worse when her own mother is coming to visit.)

So, knowing that my friend Joe is coming up to visit this weekend, I started around Wednesday to mentally prepare myself to hear her say it. "We have to pick up around here before Joe comes.." I knew it was coming. But when?

We were sitting down to dinner, watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer as is our ritual. Our dining room table has a tablecloth, a fancy runner, and over top of that is a clear plastic tablecloth. This was my idea, as I'm a slob, and I hate when I spill salsa or sauce or soda on a tablecloth and have to wash it. It was happening probably twice a week at one point, so enough. We did the plastic so now all we have to worry about is hot plates melting it. To avoid that, we have placemats.

So the stage is set. Get ready for terror.

I finished my dinner of spaghetti with meatballs accompanied by crusty bread, which I'd been ripping off by hand and slathering with butter (as is my ritual). I'd left a sizable spread of crumbs upon my placemat. I was lifting my plate to take it to the kitchen when the unspeakable act of horror took place.

My wife -- or what I thought was my wife -- reached for my placemat as I stood and performed an unthinkable act: she shook out my placemat on the floor. Crumbs went tumbling to the carpet.

I began to back away, feeling a scream building in my throat. I'm a guy who's seen The Exorcist, so I knew what to do instinctively. Don't panic. Put the plate down slowly. Back away... back away... and then I started to yell:

"The power of Christ compels thee! The power of CHRIST compels THEE! The POWER of..."

I wish I'd had some holy water to spray on this demonic apparition.

"What's your damage?" The thing in my wife's form asked. It even sounded like her.

"--CHRIST COMPELs --- Hey! I don't know what you are or what you've done to my wife, but I SAY THEE BAAAACK!"

I tried to make a cross out of my index fingers.

"I have to go call the Vatica--, uh, my mom, you Satanic parasite. You wait right there...."

"Stop being so melodramatic," said the Hell-spawn.

"Melodrama? Do you even realize, you bizarre Creature from the Depths of Perdition, how you've given yourself away? Likely not! Which is why mankind will always triumph over your evil way--"

"I threw that on the floor because you're vacuuming tomorrow. We have to pick up around here before Joe comes."

I think I stood more of a fighting chance when I thought she was possessed.

NaNoWriMo has commenced.

To be able to pull this off, I need to write 1666.67 words per day. So, on my first day, I did 1708. Whew.

Caper's Stick Injury

Yesterday afternoon, Caper stole a stick from Siren while on a walk. And he fell on it, and jammed it into the back of his mouth. I wasn't there, but Bon said he was bleed profusely, so she took him straight to the vet. They found nothing. Last night, he refused to eat -- so we immediately know something was wrong. Luckily, even tho Bon and I argued intensely last night about worry was proper to put into this situation, this morning he's back to eating. And craving. And staring at us when we have food. So I think he's probably good. Tho I look forward to hearing him bark sometime soon to see if he messed up his vocal cords. Last night he tried to bark at one trick-or-treater and it sounded like he was choking on phlegm the whole time.