I made a quick stop at the grocery store today and as I was getting in the Explore to leave an elderly gentleman was going to get into his car next to mine. He kindly waited for me and I went a head and opened the door.

"Looks like it's comin'!" he said with a broad smile. He looked slightly skyward.

"Yeah," said (sounding like an Aaron Sorkin character). "I think you're right."

"Hopefully it won't last," he said, smiling broader.

"I hope you're right." (He was right.)

He was prepared though – he had on a Kozmo jacket, just like Bonny's.

Winter storm panic. There's been a touch of it today, though nothing like last year where Bon and I actually cancelled a vacation trip into NYC because we thought a Noreaster was coming. It never happened.

The four inches of snow we were supposed to get today? Never happened. The Weather Channel is not always your friend.

When I was barely out of the womb, my parents took out a life insurance policy on me for $5000 with Prudential Insurance. Back in the early seventies, had I passed away of SIDS or cholera or the whooping croup or whatever kids get, that $5000 would likely have not only paid for my cute widdle baby-sized funeral and casket, but also left my parents enough money for a night out at Big Elms and tickets to the drive-in to see the G-rated film of their choice.

When I went off to live in the real world, I took over that policy. For the last decade, I've paid $88 bucks each year to Prudential to make sure that when I get hit by a bus, my wife will get the $5000 plus interest (about $600 as of March 2001). With today's prices, that might pay for a urn to carry my ashes in. Said urn will likely be made of aluminum with the embossed words "Diet Pepsi" barely visible under the professional paint job a good funeral director would do with a can of Krylon paint.

Last year, the Rock sent me a notice saying the company was thinking about going from a "mutual company to a stock company" if it got the votes from its customers. Having seen what going public usually does to a company – turning them into bottom-line toting corporate scum-balls – I sent back my form with a big ol' "hell no, don't got public" message. I was apparently alone in this decision because Prudential went public anyway. I figured it was just a matter of time before they told me to shove my policy along with my non-capitalist leanings.

Today in the mail: a very suspicious looking paper arrives from Prudential... a tax form? For 2002? I haven't even done all my 2001 taxes yet. What the hell...

And then I saw it at the bottom of the sheet: a check.

For $711. That's seven hundred and eleven bucks.

Free money.

Why? Because the company went public. Prudential calculated that I was entitled to 25 shares of stock based on my policy. At $28.44 per share, that's $711 bucks. They offered me stock or cash whenit happend, and I must have said cash, because to me owning stock is about as worthwhile as putting screen doors in a submarine. (Though my Internet.com stock is doing pretty well, at least it's up from what I got it for, so I should just shut up).

And who cares either way? Prudential just paid for every meal while I'm on vacation in Florida in February.

I got this e-mail from my mom after she read my post about the refrigerator money...

Regarding your blog about the tradition of refrigerator money started when you lived in the cellar in NJ. We left you money so that you could eat. Your dad just thought it would be funny to call it cold cash. I printed out your blog so that he could read it since it is hard to get him to look anything that has to do with a computer.

It's true, computers are to my dad what garlic is to Dracula, tho when I was growing up he was always the first one to buy a new gadget. Maybe it's the size. Though we did mention getting him a Palm this weekend and he poopooed that idea.

When I lived in Jersey it was a scary time when it came to finances, so that wouldn't surprise me that they started it there... tho I shared a common fridge with the creepy guy upstairs in that house, so I doubt my parents left the money in the freezer there. Sorry Mom... I think you probably started leaving money in the ice box when I lived in Wappingers Falls, NY... the very freezer that later caused me serious, serious problems during a commute into NYC one summer day in 1993.

My wife just applied for a job. This is only the second time she's sent out a resume in eight years.

By my calculations, I've sent out at least 150 resumes (via snail mail, fax, and mostly e-mail) in just the last four years. I've had at least 15 job interviews. I've had five jobs in those four years, with about eight real offers. Of course, the jobs I turned down were during the heyday of the Internet boom, and I got to watch them go belly up from the so-called safety of the employment I did take. For example, a gaming Web site tried to get me at the same time as Access Magazine. They offered slightly more money and the glory of stock options that would be worth gazillions. They were dead and gone before the dotcom backlash even started.

I got burned by stock when still at Ziff Davis, working for FamilyPC magazine...

When I started with the company, it was family owned, and despite the fact that the various magazines might be a little snappish toward each other (just try poaching a writer from PC Mag when you're in the same building), it was almost like a family. Sort of. If you had a family with an ad sales team.

The owner gave the company to his sons. The sons didn't like magazines, they wanted to play with Wall Street. So they sold the company to someone who in turn sold it to a gigantic Japanese conglomerate (think Disney without the pretend scruples) which wanted to grow the company fast—the head guy envisioned 500 new magazines from Ziff by the beginning of the millennium. That's when they took the company public.

I still wanted to believe in the company. I thought I'd be a Ziffer for life. I liked the mags, I liked what I was doing. I figured someday I'd leave Western Massachusetts and end up back in NYC or California helping run a Ziff mag, or Web site (though they sold ZDNet), or working on their ZDTV cable network (they sold that, too, along with their trade show business). I wanted to believe in Ziff Davis, so in April of 1998 I bought 100 shares of ZD stock for 1500 bucks. What the hell. I had the money, might as well show my support, right?

The stock took a nose dive. Most people, if that happened to them after 1999, never saw a recovery. I was lucky. The stock nosed up to $22 a share at one point in 1998, and I called a broker, and screamed "Sell! Sell you bastard!" just like they do on the stock exchange floor in the movies. Once his hearing recovered, he sold my stock. He took his commission. I got a check in the mail for my $1500 plus a few hundred extra profit. So I guess I made out okay and should complain.

But that taught me a lesson about the stock market: it's all magic and voodoo and means nothing.

When FamilyPC moved to NYC in January 1999 and decided to get rid of everyone who'd been creating it, then I learned another lesson: You're only as valuable as your boss thinks you are.

Since FamilyPC, however, I haven't had to see that put to the test. So far at my current job, all indications are they like me, they really like me. They liked me at my last few employers also (well, at least most of them), but my jobs withered and died anyway because of the economy or mismanagement. I hope I get a chance for a long time to come to make the grade here at work. After all, I really like the commute.

My parents aren't rich, but they are generous, especially when it comes to time, sweat and money. It's a virtue and a fault, and one that I try to embrace in equal measure, at least with the time and money, because I sweat enough for myself.

The past few days, my parents were out, ostensibly to visit, but my father always has an ulterior motive: he wants to fix things. My dad's no engineer, but he tries like hell, and when he and I can't get something fixed, my mom, who grew up a farm-girl/lumberjack, can usually step in and set us men-folk a'right. For example, this weekend, they helped me get my tractor started, finished up work on the pie safe and TV stand they and my brother made Bonny and I for Xmas and bought us way to much food.

The 'rents ultimate example of generosity manifests itself in the form of "refrigerator money." I can't remember when this tradition started, probably sometime after my brother bought his house only a few blocks from my parents in the suburbs of Hornell, NY. They helped him out with a lot of stuff on the house, things that they didn't have the time to help with at my house since I live six + hours away. Thus the generous tendency to come out here and fix and repair and so forth is naturally explained by guilt. The money thing just puts it over the top: whenever they leave, the sneak anywhere from thirty to a hundred dollars into the freezer or refrigerator, knowing we'll find it eventually.

Usually I just accept this cash. If there's anything I've learned from watching people not accept money it's that people who don't take free money are stupid.

Things are getting out of hand now. This weekend, my parents delivered furniture, bought us meals, they did everything in the world for Bon and I over the last few days, and then wanted to sneak us money on top of it? I wasn't going to let it happen. So, this morning, as my parents are packing up to leave, I got the only ten dollar bill I had, and a twenty out of Bon's wallet, and paper clipped them to a Polaroid of a refrigerator that my father, just to be cute, had taken on a previous money drop. I snuck the money and picture into the case of my mom's camera.

I stole away to the kitchen no less than four times this morning, checking the freezer and fridge each time to see if there was money. I found none.

But I knew better than to think they'd forget. Then it struck me: of course, they know the fridge is too obvious. I took a chance and looked in the pie safe and there it was: a crisp new $50 dollar bill.

Mom was by the stairs, talking to Bonny so I tried to surreptitiously grab her camera bag and put the $50 with the other $30. That would show them... not only would they get their money back, they'd have been paid back! It would show them that I'm the one in charge around here! I told mom she should go check the upstairs guest room and make sure she got everything. When that didn't work, I took a chance: I went to the dining room with the camera case, unzipped it, and stuck in the extra cash.

I put the camera case with Mom's purse and about five minutes later, we all gave our good bye hugs and kisses and they left for Hornell.

One half hour later, Bonny said to me, "They left $50 in the fridge."

GOD DAMMIT. Turns out mom heard me in the camera case. Her hearing was questionable all weekend, I thought she needed Miracle Ear, but a zipper she hears. She had looked in the case before she left, saw the $50 bill, and put it in the ice box to chill. With the Polaroid.

So, they win again. But at least I gave them $30 dollars change to make up for it. And this isn't over. Not at all. I will fight them giving me free money like this until I win, likely proving once again: people who don't take free money are stupid.

The rescue workers at the World Trade Center recently found another body in the rubble. His name was Sirius, and he was a bomb-sniffing yellow Labrador Retreiver, "believed to be the only canine to die in the attack." Four months later, his partner went back for him after almost dying there himself.

1. What cologne or perfume do you wear? I wear whatever my wife buys me. That way, I have a good chance of not making her vomit. I bought some cologne once at some store, Eddie Bauer or something like that, and she thanked me profusely when it was used up. So never again.

The current brand of stink water I'm wearing is Aveda Men, which Bon bought at the place we get our hair cut. Well, I get my hair cut. She gets her hair "done."

2. What cologne or perfume do you like best on the opposite sex? When Bon wear's Sun Moon Stars then she better be ready to dance (if you know what I mean nudge nudge wink wink say no more). The problem is, she rarely wears it (she's had the same bottle since we went on a cruise... in 1997!), probably because she knows when she does put it on, I get all amorous and crazy and not to polite about the roaming hands. Shame on me.

3. What one smell can you not stomach? Hmmm... I'd say fetid garbage . Yet, I seem to have to deal with it so often. That's just not right.

4. What smell do you like that others might consider weird? Cow manure.

5. How do you plan to spend your weekend? My parents are in town for the weekend. Tomorrow we're going out to Springfield, MA to attend a wood working show, and then we'll come home and set up my new TV stand that they built me for Xmas. They've already helped me get my tractor started for the first time since October. When my parents visit, it's all about fixing things. God bless 'em.

What a Rip Off! I thought this site would show me the way to Ponce de Leon's fav watering hole, but nooooo... this is how to live forever in the AFTER life. Sheesh. That is what eternal damnation is all about, after all, as if I didn't know that. Hell, avoiding the damnation is why I'd like to live forever.

However, the site does include diagrams telling you how to get that Eternal Life in Heaven, so I guess it's completely worthwhile. Shame this guy doesn't have an infomercial. It could run late nights on the SciFi Channel.

Reading is a solitary act, one that should only be done simultaneous with someone on the same book if that someone is under age five. I've read books at the same time as people, but not the exact same copy of the book at the same time, so I, like any reader, came away with completely different interpretations and insights into what was read.

But worse, I come away not knowing how to pronounce the words I just read.

It's not a chronic problem, but there are certain words in the English language that I learned the meaning of as a child, but since I never had to use them in everyday conversation, I didn't really pay that much attention to how you say them aloud. I guess it's like being able to read a foreign language but not being able to speak that language. Only stupid.

For example, the word "preface" (prěf΄ is). I pronounced this "PREE-face" for years. Another favorite is "harbinger" (här΄ bin-jer) which for years I actually would say aloud as "har-BRING-er" until finally my friend Lauren was kind enough to ridicule me for it publicly so I stopped. I mean, look at the word for Christ sake, there's only one R but I was using two.

So, okay, I admit, I'm dumb as a sack of hammers. But I've seen worse, and they had nothing to do with fancy words that people got from book learnin' like me. An aunt of mine did and probably still does pronounced the word "wash" as "warsh" with a very hard R. That drives me nuts. Some might call it a local dialect or accent, but she grew up in the same area as the rest of my family, so that's nuts.

I suppose we could blame it on upbringing. One of my college roommates, Andy, was a king of mispronouncing the names of movie stars. Dan Ah-CROYD (instead of ACK-royd) and Matthew BRO-der-ick (instead of Brod-ER-ick) are a couple that jump to mind. Andy was a frickin' movie and entertainment junkie so the only excuse here: his mom. I only met her once, but I think she just said things funny and hey, when you're raised by funny talkers, I guess that's how you turn out.

I wish I'd thought of this...

From TopFive.com's Ruminations

Do they sell a sticker that shows Calvin urinating on a car that has a sticker of Calvin urinating on something in its back window? 'Cause I hate those stickers.

(George MacMillan)

I'm now up and running using a new tool to blog called Movable Type. It looks good and works suprisingly well -- I was expecting it to be much worse of a setup. There's still some bugs to work out, especially on the templates for the archives, but no one reads them anyway (right?) so they can wait a while.

The really sad thing... I can't import all the comments I had on previous posts. So everything will be like new again. (The comment template also needs to be adjusted, but the comments function does work.)

That's it, tomorrow I'm back to normal blogging of commentary and comedy and nonsense.

Two friends discuss their evening plans in instant messages. This is not for the weak of stomach:

JoeyJoeJoe: Dude, I'm blowing outta dis place. Gonna go home and configure mah new Cisco router.
ECGriffith: cool. have fun.
ECGriffith: I'm going to knock off soon and play more with MT.
JoeyJoeJoe: Routers and Moveable Type. This is fun?!? We are lame.
ECGriffith: yes.
ECGriffith: yes we are.
ECGriffith: sigh.
JoeyJoeJoe: sigh.

[Joe's IM name has been change to protect him from the barbs and ridicule of strangers. He gets enough of that from his friends.]

Today was a pretty nice day. I slept until 10am (and I only got up then because my wife decided to come in and warm her ice cold hands by placing them against my abdomen). We went to visit the little computer store in Maynard that was supposedly having a sale, though I didn't see any bargains: thank god for online shopping. We got some groceries and went for a walk with the dogs as the snow started to fall in a heavy blanket. At home, we had some lunch, fired up the DirecTivo, and watched Natasha Lyonne in But I'm a Cheerleader, a quite funny movie, though it's no Bring It On (God, I love that frickin' movie). Then I split some wood (Bon even watched a while, so I could impress her with my manliness) and since about 3:30 I've been reading Web sites and watching my mail trickle in (something is wrong with either my ISP, or my Web host, or both, though I've been relaxed enough not to care).

This is all in stark contrast to last Monday. Bon was on a deadline to get a couple stories done, one of which I was helping her with. She handed that story in and was then told by the editor that it was all wrong and had to be rewritten – the curse of editors who don't communicate, since we did an outline stating what we'd cover and showed the editor weeks ago. Still, I blamed myself for screwing it up for her.

I had put together a bunch of checks with a deposit slip to mail to my online bank -- I'm canceling my local bank account this week, they're pathetic -- and then I promptly lost the envelope and $250 dollars worth of checks. I was furious and distraught. I tore the house apart looking for it. I went through three bags of recycled papers and the garbage to find it with no luck. By Wednesday I was convinced I'd accidentally put the envelope in the fireplace. I was ready to contact all the people I'd had checks from, including some eBay purchasers and hoping not to look to foolish. But, it turns out I had put the envelope out in the mail, because the money showed up in my bank account on Friday. Whew.

My god. Tomorrow is a holiday. Time to put up the MLKing tree and sing MLKing carols. (Imagine if there were such a thing, they'd probably be rap songs. I wonder if that would make Dr. King wince. Most likely.)

Bon's away for the day. There's so much I could be doing. I could work on the novel (ha). I could draw a picture. I could split more wood. I could do some writing for work. I could clean my office. I could play more with Siren (we've already been out in the cold three times). I could watch another movie on the TiVo, or a DVD. I just watched Romeo Must Die, which was like an unfunny version of Rush Hour without Chris Tucker, and the 1979 remake of Nosferatu, which was one of the most boring films I'd ever seen. Perhaps it might have been remotely scary at 2am in the dark, but the boring parts would surely have put my to sleep by then. Shadow of the Vampire is a much better film.

But, for some reason, I can't bring myself to do any of that. I think I'll go try to take a nap.

I thought I'd spend some of today moving my blog over to work with Movable Type instead of Blogger. I got it working, but the damn thing is running SLOW... which I think is a function of my Web host's servers, not the program. Oh well. I'd switch to a new host, but I paid a year in advance and I might as well take advantage of the time.

Here's a picture of the rock band KISS. Or a kiss. I'm not sure. I'm just expermenting with a JPEG without looking to see what it is.

Talk about video game violence....

Here's how much I love my new ax and chopping wood: I dreamt about it.

Cue harp music:
FADE IN -- I'm in a large work shop, surrounded by tools and workbenches and, in my immediate vicinity, big blocks of wood. I decide to split one, and I bring down the ax to split the first log, and -- it's not an ax. It's the maul with the short handle. So I put that aside and grab for the ax and try again, and this time smoosh the top of the block because it's still not the ax. It's a big ol' sledge hammer. Finally, I get the actual ax and I split the log right down the middle with one move. Then George C. Scott walk in -- it's apparently his work shop -- looking just like he did when trying to pass himself off as a native American in the movie FireStarter. He starts in on me about how he could split those logs if he wanted to. Yeah, right, George. FADE OUT.
End harp music.

(I think I'll stop blogging about the ax stuff now so you don't think I have a Paul Bunyan complex.)

I don't like labor that hurts my back. Like shoveling snow. It makes me insane with anger and frustration (partly because I know if I did situps or crunches or something, I'd have a stronger back, but mostly because there shouldn't be any god damn snow in the first place). But I've found one thing I like to do even though it does hurt my back: Split wood with my new ax.

I used to hate anything to do with firewood as a kid. I had to go to my grandparents farm and the whole family had to help cut wood every weekend of the winter just to keep my grandparents warm. Years later, after Grandpa died, Grandma got an oil furnace. What the hell! They couldn't have done that when I was 7 and given us all back a few hundred hours of our lives?

Anyway, I used to split wood with an ax back then, but it seemed to take forever. I now know why: it was a slim headed ax. The ax I just bought is shaped like a big wedge. If it gets stuck, a smack with the maul sends it sailing though the block. That's only needed about 1 out of 20 times if you hit the block hard enough in the first place. And oh, do I ever.

I don't mind hurting my back if what I'm doing seems destructive. Maybe I need therapy.

I go through periods of absolutely adoring certain comic strips. There was a time as a kid I thought I'd try to own every single thing that ever featured Garfield. This was before the fat cat became a marketing phenom -- but I do own some of the very first Garfield strip reprint books in hard cover. I'm glad Bill Watterson never let that marketing craziness happen to Calvin & Hobbes, there were only books, no toys, tv shows or whatever. Just lots of illegal pictures of Calvin urinating found on the back windows of redneck-owned pick-up trucks everywhere. I do admit to owning a Bill the Cat stuffed animal (from Berke Breathed's Bloom County), which is perhaps one of the greatest stuffed animals ever. It's not cuddly and looks like it really is coughing up furballs.

As much as I love all of the above, and as much as I didn't get this strip at first, I now abosolutely adore above all others Get Fuzzy by Darby Conley. I get it every weekday in my e-mail and turn to it first in the Sunday Globe. Today's strip is proof of why:

(And I don't just love it because they mention a frog.)

B3 d+ t k- s u f i o+ x+ e+ l c--

I find myself moisturizing up to 5 times a day. It's dry here in New England this time of year and my hands are scaly, but my hands are not my worry. It's my elbows.

I moisturize the crap out of my elbows. Why? I had a boss for a brief time who had the most vile looking arm joints I'd ever seen. The ends were distended and crusty and looked leprotic And he always wore polo shirts.

I occasionally wear polo shirts. But I don't want to scare people with heinous looking funny bones. So I hope that a touch of body lotion on the ol' 'bows will do the trick.

Do women have groins?

If so, why do you never hear about a woman getting hit in the groin? Only guys?

Today, I had to buy an ax and a cable. The ax is to split wood, the cable is for digital audio from my new satellite receiver.

So, I said to my wife: "Bon. We must go shopping. I need to buy an ax and a cable."

And she said to me: "Why? Are you planning to tie me up and do away with me?"

See, that's how her mind thinks! Pure paranoia! Yet, I'm the one that should be paranoid. When we first knew each other, she hated my guts.

Bonny and I first met during the first weeks of our freshman year while working at the Terrace Dining Hall at Ithaca College. A year later we were dating and never looked back (much), but getting to that point meant overcoming her bitter disgust and resentment toward me. Why did she loathe me so? Because she thought I was a suck up.

And I guess I was. See, the dining hall (it was NOT a cafeteria, goddammit) was where all freshmen students who couldn't get good jobs in the college work-study program ended up. The only way for a freshman to get a better job lined up before school started was to know someone on the inside at the college. Neither of us did, so we and a few hundred others were given blue t-shirts that said "IC Dining" and a crappy painter's cap with the same logo and told to report for duty.

I was a beverage guy from the start.

That's not to say I was a bartender, no, nothing glamorous like that: I tended the row of self-serve beverages, much like you'd find at Burger King today. Only consider having about 200 people per hour hit those drink systems and you can imagine the mess. And the refills. And the mess.

Still, I can truthfully say with absolutely no question that of all the jobs I've ever had, I've never mastered any like I did beverages. I was an amazing beverage guy. Perhaps the best ever. I could make two pots of coffee, switch the bag of syrup on the Coke machine, and wipe down the orange juice dispenser simultaneously. I'd refill the cereal and bring out more deserts just to be helpful because I was so caught up. I did a good job, worked hard on my two 4-hour evening shifts (Monday and Wednesdays), made friends with the student supervisors and the full-time staff, and to be honest, started to really like the job.

On Friday's, however, I did the lunch shift. The supervisors and managers were all different, and they didn't seem to understand that I was a superior beverage guy: they were always trying to get me to do other jobs, maybe to expand my horizons, maybe to punish me, who knows. They'd have me work the deli, or refill the salad bar, or worse, work the main line serving up entrees to the students.

I think I complained about it a lot. There was some girl who worked the serving line with me (and with Spike, the main server) a couple of times and I don't think she cared for me and my complaints. She was short and cute and hid all her hair up in her painter's cap like a good employee and never smiled at me once. Guess who.

At the end of the first semester, there were a couple of openings for student supervisors. Getting that job meant I would be making more money, and getting to assign people to jobs and oversee them instead of work. Sounded good to me.

I applied and got the job. I was the youngest student supervisor there, maybe ever. I let it go to my head, I admit. During the second semester it took me a while to find my groove: some people called me Little Hitler because I was being too bossy. My friend Rod, who'd been my student supervisor during first semester, and another friend, Jill, are two who helped shepherd me into a semblance of a decent supervisor. Later, the full-time managers like Lori and Ken helped even more and became close friends. I was soon as good a superviser as I was a beverage guy. At least I like to think so. I'm sure there's some bitter students who I put on salad bar or on clean up who'd say different. (But screw 'em!)

Occasionally I'd work lunch shifts and I'd see this Bonny chick, the one with the attitude, so I'd put her to work on the north line serving slop and then I'd spend my shift over on the west side of the dining hall hanging out and trying to catch students stealing food. I wasn't much good at that.

The year ended. I went home to Hornell and had a great summer -- the last summer I spent at home. September comes and I'm back to school, sophomore year. Back to the dining hall. I didn't even look for a different job.

A couple of new student supervisors had been hired at Terrace Dining, and one is this girl Bonny with the attitude (and, I have to say, amazing... well, uh, posture). Turns out I was working a dinner shift with her. Discomfort is sure to ensue, I figured. We knocked heads a couple of times over things like where to assign students and putting things away (cleanup was always the worst time of night).

But slowly, things start to thaw. I'm not sure what bonded us. I do remember one night cleaning the soft ice cream machine (the memory of which to this day ensures that I don't eat soft ice cream) and asking her why she used to give me such attitude. Turns out she'd gone for student supervisor at the same time I did, and didn't get the job. Afterwards, seeing how I handled the promotion, she thought I must have been a complete ass kisser. I defended myself by saying I did work hard, really; I was only half a suck up.

In October Bonny and I were hanging out more and more during shifts, and one night while she was in the walk-in meat cooler filling up a big container of tuna salad for the deli, I walked in behind her, mentioned that she looked stressed, and started to give her a back massage. She melted.

One night a week later, she had me over to her dorm room. I met a bunch of girls on her floor and we all hung out, and then as it got late, I figured I should go and not annoy the crap out of this girl and her friends. I left, and hoofed it the quarter mile to my dorm. I wasn't in the door more than ten minutes when the phone rang. It was Bonny.

"You know..." she said, "You didn't have to leave."

I was back there in record time. Her friends were gone. It was just us.

I don't think I left that room much for the rest of the year. And a lot of junior year. We even bought a futon together for that room (our first furniture purchase). By senior year we were living together.

We owe it all to Terrace Dining Hall bringing us together. I spent an unhealthy amount of time at Terrace's while in college, because I convinced myself somewhere along the way that food service was my new path in life. I got over it, thank God. Still, I have great memories of that place, everything from parties to anger to laughs to yelling (not all of the above were with Bonny, mind you) and some... unmentionables memories that do involve Bon. Let's just say that during dinner at a trade show with some friends years later, we had a little contest and I won. Ahem.

I felt so close to the dining hall that I also made sure when we got married at Ithaca College's chapel, we had our reception there.

Because of that building and that job, I've spent over 12 years with the woman of my dreams.

Who still thinks I'm a suck up, and now she's nervous because I bought an ax.

This note came this morning with the Globe (and the wet snow):

Delivery of the Newspaper The Boston Globe
I come to ask the understanding of all case newspaper he/she is late during the week due to difficulty during the snow. I will try to always maintain the delivery of the newspaper in the schedule. At once I thank the whole ones. Have a good morning.
Happy New Year.

I love that the paper (he/she) is a hermaphrodite.

After finding that link for Up with People, I found out that they're no longer touring anymore. Didn't they do a Super Bowl half time show once? That's sad. I guess. Actually, no, it's kinda funny.

FridayFive time:

1. What was your first job? I used to wash monkey rectums at the local zoo.
No, not really. I got my first job offered to me before I was even 16. My friend Brian's dad owned one and ran two of the local radio stations in Hornell,NY. They even lived right up the hill from the station, so Brian, when he worked, would put on "American Pie" to play because he knew it was over eight minutes long so he could run up to the house to get food and be back in time before the song ran out on the record (yes, this was before CDs were big). Brian's dad offered me a job that I started just about the same time I turned 16, working the Sunday morning shift from 6:30am to 1pm, taking it over from another guy we knew from high school. The boss was big on exploiting youth for cheap labor, and I have to say he was pretty understanding about it when we screwed up, which was often.

2. How old were you when you had your first kiss? My first kiss has been covered in excruciating depth previously here.

3. What was your first car? What happened to it? It was a K-car. A Plymouth Reliant in pale blue that I bought just before my sophomore year of college. It's the car I had my second car accident in while driving around with my brand spanking new girlfriend (now known as "the wife") and that later my brother borrowed and drove into the back of a sheriff's car. I really have no recollection at all what I did with it when I got my next car after that (my parents give me their Eagle Premier at college graduation, which was one of the biggest lemon's ever produced). Did I sell it? Junk it? I really can't remember. It hasn't even been a decade! I'm pathetic.

4. What was your first concert? I didn't like any musicians but Billy Joel in high school, and I don't remember any opportunity to see him ever coming up. So, If you don't count all the stuff I saw on stage at the Hornell High School – and you shouldn't, because I think the only thing that would count was "Up With People" – then I'm embarrassed to say it was the Smother's Brothers. This would have also been right before my sophomore year of college, summer of 1989 – the year Squished Frog Productions was born. I went to the concert in Buffalo with original SFP members Bill and Dave. When I got home that night around 1am, I found the house completely locked up and I didn't have my keys. My parents weren't home yet. So, I ended up getting out the ladder and climbing through second floor window in the front of the house. It's a miracle someone didn't call the cops.

I did eventually see a Billy Joel concert in Buffalo a couple years later with Bonny and our friend Spike. (Spike, by the way, is a she.)

5. How do you plan to spend your weekend? That depends. This Sunday is my sister-in-law's baby shower, on Sunday at 2pm. I'm not sure we're going. If we do, then we aren't leaving until Sunday morning and then we'll have to leave either Sunday night to be back home to work or around 6am Monday to be back in time to get stuff done. All hinges upon that decision, since I promised I'd go, even though I'm sure I'm not supposed to be at the shower (though I could sit at the in-law's cable modem and get some work done, I guess).

I'd rather stay home and do the same amount of work while playing with the TiVo on the side.

Blogger will stay free, but there will be a $30/year premium version according to OnlineBlog.com. Nothing announced yet but that. This is good -- anyone with a business like Blog can pay for the premium version to guarantee some up-time and the rest of us get to continue to coast. Cool.

Ah, the good ol' days of the Internet, when content was king and you could slap up anything and make money and people were happy to license it from you know matter how dated it would be in a few hours. Case in point: I did a search today for "eric griffith" familypc today on Google for giggles and found a story I wrote for the mag after they sent me packing -- but I found it at the WashingtonPost. Yet not, because it's a Post page, hosted at ZDNet, which, as we all know, is now owned by their worst enemy, CNET. Got all that? But it was nice to find it, so I could save it to my online clipping file.

Bon found this site called GazNET with a giant Anti-Spam list for Outlook. It's a huge file that Outlook checks against when receiving e-mail, and if the address of an incoming matches one on the list, the message is treated like spam and sent to the Deleted Items. I loaded it up and it worked great... but then I started to notice that messages I needed to get at my inbox were being treated like spam (tho I couldn't find them in the list) and worse, when I went to add new spammers to the list, it would take up to 5 seconds for the name to be entered into the huge file. Five minutes=eternity when computing. Check it out, but beware the caveats. Or, better yet, be smart and don't plaster your e-mail address all over the place like I do.

I blogged a few times yesterday, but all the posts were lost because "publishing" wasn't available. I'm not complaining tho... I did that once and felt like a dope, because in the end, Blogger is free free free and tough shit for me. But, I'm considering moving over to Movable Type anyway because it's also free, a tech challenge (why I want that I don't know) and I really don't know if Blogger can stay free for long. Maybe it can. I hope so.

The ol' homestead taking another hit...

Don't tell me Big Brother isn't watching. I just took a look for the first time at my "Social Security Statement" (Yeah, it came back in August... I had things to do!) and it actually tells me how much money I've made every year of my life since I was old enough to work. The upside is, by 2000 I was making 79 times as much as I was in 1986. Bets on the fact that I took a dip in 2001?

When Bon and I bought our first house, the guy who was the real estate broker for the seller's was a really nice guy we liked. We even used him later to help us sell that same house. He looked a very little bit like Dave Thomas, the founder of Wendy's, and when we'd get flustered and would try to think of his name, I'd say, "We gotta call Dave Thomas from Wendy's."

Today, the real live Dave Thomas from Wendy's died of cancer in his Florida home at the age of 69.

I've never liked his restaurant (last time I ate in one was a prelude to one of the worst weekends of my life) or his burgers (square burger on a round bun? Give me a break.) or his "shakes" (practically solid ice cream in a cup whicn induces instant brain freeze), but I always liked him as a pitchman. God speed, Dave Thomas from Wendy's.

Please note, our former realtor, who's name is Steve, is fine. I guess.

My uncle works for a furniture company. He's worked for various furniture companies for years, usually as a buyer -- the guy who buys all the supplies the furniture is made out of -- or whatnot. His current company does nothing but make furniture for hotels, and of course, hotel occupency is way down this year, so no one is beating the crap out of the furniture (thank god for rock stars on drugs) and thus his company has few orders from hotel/motel chains looking for new dressers, desks, beds, etc.
His wife also works for a furniture company (a different one in the same town) that makes stuff for residences, and no one's buying that either because the economy sucks.

He just sent me an e-mail asking if, based on my experience, I know of any business that would be something he could do from home. Not full time, just to get his feet wet and see if it's something he or they could both do. Keeping in mind he's not really up on the computer side of things.

So what do I tell him?

I haven't a clue.

Here's what my broadband woes boil down to: Verizon sucks. And so does AT&T.

DSL connections in a household are dependant upon two things: being close enough to the phone company central office in your town (which I am) and the right equipment being set up in that central office to support you having DSL.

So much for number two.

There is equipment in the local CO... but it's for business DSL. So I'm slowly finding more and more ISPs willing to give me DSL... but all at crappy prices for (relatively) slow connections.

My best find so far: $109 a month for 256K sDSL (meaning data goes 256 kilobits per second up and down the line to my house). That's still almost five times faster than dialup, and since it's digital and there's no analog conversion like with a modem, it seems even faster. But it's also slower than Residential DsL and twice the price of most Residential DSL.

And until Verizon gets off its collective ass, I'll probably pay it.... though last time I said that the cost was $149/month and I waited a couple weeks, did more research and found this price. Maybe in two weeks I can get it down to $69 a month. But I'm not holding my breath.

My mom sent me this e-mail yesterday:

We ran across some of your earlier writings...call us and we will read them to you. Or I could post them and the entire world could read them. One story was about mud man. Another was about a dam bursting.

I wish I could say I remember what the hell she's talking about, but I don't, which is probably for the best. (Yeah, and I'd like to see mom start a blog to post them at! Scary enough to know she's reading mine.)

Her note got me to thinking about writing again, though.

So, I'm ready to admit it.

I'm not a writer.

Part of my problem is I've always been far too interested in the process and tools of writing than in actually get writing done. For years I subscribed to Writer's Digest magazine to glean the secrets of the masters. Writer Steven Grant once wrote: "WRITER'S DIGEST is one of my favorite comedy magazines...they seem hell-bent on eliminating that elusive Human Factor that continues to screw up their 99.9% perfect schemes. But it's the human factor that makes or breaks writing.

That crystallizes perfectly why I didn't learn much. Perhaps I'm not human?

I've also been overly fascinated by software that helps you write: Word 2002 is my tool of choice, like it is for many others, but years ago it was getting a copy of Final Draft screenwriting software that propelled me to write a couple of TV scripts with friends, though those scripts went nowhere. I sat here last night debating whether to put up some software that I've had laying around for months that does the same thing on eBay... but I couldn't part with it. I couldn't even part with a copy of Dramatica, software that "helps you develop unforgettable characters, seamless plots, and passionate themes into fully realized stories." I know this is all nonsense. But there the CD sits, waiting eagerly to be installed.

Before I was into computers and still thought my future was fiction writing, I was obsessed with stationary supplies. No lie, I could wander for hours in a stationary store just thinking about all the cool supplies a writer would need and use (back then I also thought I had a future as an artist, but I got over that quick). Had there been a Staples near me when I was a teen, I probably would have tried to get a job in such a mega-store of supplies.

So it's not the tools, I've got those in spades.

I'm not a writer because, as the saying goes, "Writer's write." They can't stop, they love it, they have words and characters and scenes pouring out of them, spilling on to the floor, clogging the drains and making a general mess of themselves what with all the clauses and gerunds and sentences and whatnot.

Or do they? I blog frequently. Maybe not as much as some, but then again, I'm no longer unemployed and I've got to pay the bills. At least when blogging I know I have an audience. And I love you all. (Except you. You know who you are. Jerk.)

Is payment what it boils down to? I think it does. I worry that it does, but I don't know if I should worry. Elaine put it quite well in her first blog entry: "You see, I’m a writer. A professional writer. And for over a dozen years, this is the way it’s worked: People pay me to write; I pay my bills. About the only things I write for free are grocery lists and checks. Sure, blogging seemed interesting. Sure, it’s fun to read what other folks have to say. But for FREE? You want me to write, show me the money."

Yeah. Yeah! Why the hell shouldn't I worry about payment? When you work hard at something you care about, it should sustain you. Yeah, dammit!

But, sadly, writing – the kind I've always aspired to do, at least – doesn't sustain many. When I read a great writer like Neil Gaiman say "My own new year's resolution? I want to write more. There are too many stories not told, and a limited amount of time to tell them in. all I can think is well sure... and I'll read what you write... but I also know you're getting paid for it.

So the moral: If it was my job, I probably would write more. At least I think so.

The conundrum, like any job: no one will pay a writer until they see a writer can write.

Sigh.

So, I must keep plugging at the damn book I started for NaNoWriMo. I must must must. I've got the book in me. It's a good story. He's a good protagonist, up against nasty people and he might even prevail. It's a story I want to tell.

I just wish I knew it would sustain me.

[[By the way, I'm well aware that if this is the worst problem in my life right now, I've got no problems at all compared to those I know who are unemployed and out of unemployment benefits, or heading toward unemployment, or hate their jobs, or have incontinent dogs or relatives, or are going through a separation with a wife they already divorced once.]]

I had the best of intentions today. I was going to get up early, clean house, do lots of writing work for me and to help Bon with a story. Instead, I got up around 10:30, I did vacuum (but I had to, we had company on the way, and Bon starts to panic if the house has an ounce grime when people are on the way), but then spent most of the day writing up things to sell on eBay.

Like my friend Josh, who's sold thousands of dollars in comics on eBay in the last year (he used to work at Marvel Comics and got them free, so it's all pure profit for him), I'm a firm believer in making eBay write ups look as good as possible. I dress them up with actual pictures of the products and sprinkle in quotes from reviews of whatever product I'm selling, to make them look as good as possible. I think it helps. I hope it does. But, it takes time.

Even if I don't make much -- it's not like it's 1999 anymore -- I've cleaned some space on my shelves getting rid of some old software and hardware and stereo components. Tomorrow, tho, I promise to work. Really. I mean it.

Shut up, I will so.

1. You've just won a complete collection of movies starring one actor - what actor would you pick? I saw Slums of Beverly Hills last night, so I'm kind of on a Marisa Tomei high, but that won't last. I guess I'd have to say Kevin Spacey. He's always good even when the film sucks (Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil), but when the film is good... whoa.

2. What was the last movie you saw in a theater? Lord of the Rings

3. What was the last video or DVD that you bought? I got The Simpson's Season One for Xmas as a gift, but the last one I bought for myself? Crap, that might have been Gladiator. I can't remember. Next one I will buy is Moulin Rouge.

4. What movie could you watch over and over again and not get sick of? Superman the Movie or Errol Flynn in The Adventures of Robin Hood. Maybe Magnolia, but I haven't tried to watch it over and over again.

5. How do you plan to spend your weekend? Saturday morning: cleaning. Saturday afternoon/Evening: Working. Sunday: probably working, but hopefully very little. Sounds like I might be cranking out the ol' snow blower, though.

My Hughes DirecTV Reciever with TiVo built in has shipped... now if I can only hear from the installer ahead of time to figure out how much the extras I want will cost, all will be right with the world....

I just got this invite for a meeting at the Consumer Electronics Show, a show next week in Vegas that I'm not attending but I wish I were:

TASER International invites you to sit down for a scheduled
interview with a TASER expert during CES at TASER booth #13015.
Not to mention, if you think you can handle it, you'll be offered
the chance to experience the true effects of TASER, shoot a
target with a TASER or just watch others scream and get
knocked on their ass.

Now that's a meeting.

My brother, Paul, just informed me that he has asthma. This shouldn't come as any shock having grown up with two parents who smoke – these days like chain smokers it seems – but that it happened to Paul is both ridiculous and sad. As I told him on the phone: "I can't believe I'm so sloth-like and you're not, yet you get all the illnesses."

And he does. He's broken bone after bone (I broke my arm once, but never even got a cast), had slightly increased webbing between his fingers that was fixed by surgery when he was a kid (the skin grafts came from his groin, so imagine the fun I have with that to this very day), he's had allergies and his tonsils taken out and ulcers. The only thing we've both had is kidney stones, as have most of the male members of the Griffith side of the family.

It's ridiculous and sad that he gets all this because he's a 31 year old guy in pretty damn good shape, who works at it and does all the right things, though I'm sure he eats too many tacos. Sure, he's a cop, but there's no good donut places in Alfred, NY.

Now he gets to carry an inhaler with him all the time, probably for the rest of his life. I just don't get it.

I scanned this in to share. This is on a t-shirt my family got me for Xmas. It kind of says it all without any help from me.

X10's pop-under ads are among the most annoying ever, and they're ubiquitous as hell... but they do let you set a cookie on your system so the ads won't come up for a month. It's better than nothing. Click on http://www.x10.com/home/optout.cgi?DAY=30&PAGE=http://www.x10.com/x10ads1.htm to place the cookie and avoid the ads for 30 days.

It is done.

The DirecTV dish is on the way. Installation will be one week from today. Now all I have to do is go buy the TIVO receiver unit and I will be in TV HEAVEN.

brief geek-out: GLory! Hallelujah! DirecTV is finally offering ALL of the local networks on it's service, which is the one thing that was preventing me from ordering it. Now, it looks like it's time to take the plunge, and we can finally tell AT&T Broadband to take a very, very long walk off a very, very short pier.

Kudos to the Kays Family of Texas, USA: that was the best damn Xmas card/letter I've seen all year. (For those who didn't get to see it... which I assume is all of you... my friend and original Squished Frog Productions member Cap'n Bill Kays, his wife Eileen and their five (COUNT 'EM, that's F-I-V-E) kids, sent a letter that looked like an Old West newspaper, complete with a picture of the entire family in Western outfits and comical write-ups about the weather that refered to Bill as "Pa Kays". Funny, cute, and fits perfect on a refrigerator.)

Saddest thing I've heard in a long time? Call 1-781-453-3990 and listen to the message.

Last night was New Year's Eve. Bon and I spent the evening with a fine meal and watched a DVD (Guy Richie's Snatch, which was pretty good) and then flipped around the channels until midnight, going from Dick Clark to South Park and back again. Nice and quiet

South Park apparently no longer has ANY restrictions on it except the F-word and SH-word, and they even did an episode with no restrictions on that. Even when they're gross and unfunny, I admire the hell out of that show. (Oh, and for the record, the South Park Movie is one of the larger pieces of genius ever committed to film... it's the finest anti-censorship message since Fahrenheit 451).