1.21 Gigawatts !!!!

OK, so I’ve pretty much abandoned this thing. But let me explain why. When I took a brief break, I asked if anyone who reads this would send me their email so I could notify them when I started up again. I received exactly zero emails. So I inferred that the interest level is not really high. However, every now and then I get a little post asking me when I’ll start up again, so here goes…


Facebook.


This little social networking application has grown from the domain of college and high school kids to the primary tool for coordinating 20 year reunions. I should know, I’m being recruited to facilitate just that. It seems that every week people from my past are crawling out of the woodwork discovering this “new” technology. “Isn’t this great!?!?” “So glad to see you on FB!!!” “Here’s an embarrassing picture of you puking in your underwear in the school bathroom at the Prom 20 years ago… hope your prospective employers see it!”


I won’t deny that there is a small segment of the population that have tracked me down that I actually wanted to hear from, but in the end, they could have much more easily Googled me. I mean, if it’s someone I really wanted to keep in touch with, I would have found them by now or more likely (being anti-social myself) they would have found me. I am, after all, easy to find. So what do I get? Thirty “Friend Requests” from people I don’t know -- or worse, don’t like. It’s getting to the point where I am actually getting “Friend Requests” from people whom I consider enemies.


It’s the online equivalent of a DeLorean fitted with a flux capacitor that is fueled entirely by painful memories. “Hey remember that time when I spray-painted the word ‘FAG!’ on the side of your car? Ha Ha Ha -- will you be my friend?” Fuck You McFly!


The amazing thing is, that for the most part these people haven’t really changed. Instead of taking their senior photo with their 1987 Nissan Sentra and forcing those little wallet-sized photos into my hand, they now post annoying pictures of their kids dressed up for Halloween as a drooling bumble bee. Should I feel bad that I’m only number eleven on the list of coolest people? Jesus, it’s like they all aged backward. It’s the Curious Case of Benjamin Beavis and Butthead.


To all you people new to this whole thing, I’ve got some advice. You see, the rest of us have been living in the 21st century for nine years now. Take your “25 Things I don’t Want to Fucking Know About You” list, shove it up your ass and when you finally pass it back out, use at as fertilizer for your “Little Green Patch“.


Oh and here’s a big FYI for you, if we weren’t actually friends before… we still aren’t.

The Never Ending Story

Without their very own “Luck Dragon”, the Democrats are fucked.

Last night the NC and IN primaries came to a close and with it, the chances that Hillary Clinton could be elected President went to zero. Well… maybe. You see I, like so many others, still think that she is so focused on this, and has committed so much of her self-esteem into the race that she can’t see that it’s over and may therefore fail to release her pesky little tallons on this thing and come up with some extraordinary methods of snatching it away from Barack Obama. I envision some sort of closed, smoke-filled room where they hatch a plan to re-introduce FL and MI into the mix and hold instant runoff, winner take-all primaries in those states, giving Hillary the closing lead in the required delegates. This will of course, fulfill the mission of the Democratic Party, which is to torpedo itself into a loss in November. They can do it… I have faith.

I am not a big fan of Obama. I mean, yeah he’d be a fine President. We could do worse, but there just seems to be something about him that smells like form over function... style over substance. But I decided to do my own digging. If you look at energy policy I think it is demonstrative of my concern. According to the Washington Post:

Clinton voted to oppose the federal boost for grain-based ethanol (read corn growers in IA) while Obama supported it. For my money that’s one good point for her. As we’ve seen, corn-based ethanol is not the answer to the energy crisis. It is however one of the causes of the global food shortage. The vote in question was an effort to block a proposed amendment to the 2005 energy bill that would have established an ethanol mandate for refineries. Obama voted for the ethanol mandate. Hmmm. Go figure, a Senator from a corn growing state in favor of this one. Also, Clinton supported a bill to expand oil and gas production in the Gulf of Mexico, while Obama voted against it. Until my car runs on hydrogen, I think we need to do what we can to exploit home-grown oil resources. The bottom line is that he may be trying to do the right thing, but's leading to an energy crisis and starvation.

You see, it’s those unintended consequences of well meaning politicians that always fuck us over. Like that tool in Duluth MN and his damn cel. phone legislation. He wants to save lives, but all he’d really end up doing is driving people on the edge of the lower middle class into poverty. He means no harm. In fact he means well. You see that’s the problem with idealists, they tend to try to fix things... to make change happen. Frankly, the less they do, really the better off we all are and I think the American public believes that. Any guesses on which of the three candidates will actually try to do the least? I just get the sense that this is a contest between optimism and pragmatism. I think we all know where I fit on that spectrum.

All of this is, of course, irrelevant because barring the previous scenario involving FL and MI there’s no way she can win. Unless of course, Obama is found to be a “Secret Muslim”, something that Jeremiah Wright has firmly eliminated as a possibility.

So there you have it, Obama is going to be the nominee. I can deal with that. Fine. But there’s something troubling me. As I have stated before, Democrats can’t win in 2008. The reason is two-fold.

First, in case you haven’t noticed the racial lines are being drawn more distinctly as the campaigns move forward. Clinton was getting 20% of the black vote at one time, now it’s down to 6%. Obama is getting virtually all the black vote now (over 90%) and though maintaining a certain percentage of upscale white voters, it’s still around 40% in many cases. As this thing moves to the general election, the divide will become more polarized not less. The Republicans will make this about race. They have to, and 30% of the white vote is not enough to win the Presidency. It’s pathetic and sad, but as I’ve said previously, we’re just not ready for that. I hope I eat my words come November, but something tells me McCain will win this thing. Worse than that, the country will be much more racially divided than we were at the start of this thing. If the demographics in the voting continue to trend the way they have (increasingly divisive), I think it’s safe to say, we’re screwed.

The other reason Democrats stand to lose is the way they elect their nominee. You see, Clinton has this right. If the States were winner-take-all like the Republican system (for the most part), then she’d be the nominee. Maybe the Democrats should nominate their candidates using the same sort of method that, you know, the Country does when they elect a President. I mean, we have this little thing called the Electoral College (delegates) and this winner-take-all system per state. Maybe, just maybe, Democrats should apply that system to their selection process. Howard Dean, are you listening?

World's Greatest Dad

I have an announcement to make. I’ve decided that I have children. Not that I am going to have children, but that I already have. Molly, age six and little Spence, age four, sure are a handful. But it’s rewarding. I mean just the other day they were playing in the living room and Molly said the cutest thing: “Daddy, why do birds and bees have sex?” Adorable. Needless to say, it was also a bit awkward. Ha ha ha. They’re just so honest about everything it reminds me of what’s important in life. I have a big picture of the two of them as my desk-top image, my background photo on my phone and a little one of the three of us as my instant messenger icon. That way they are with me every day, wherever I am. And more importantly, everyone else can see them too and realize how much I love them and how they are the priority in my life. It’s tough being a single father.

So you’ll have to forgive me if I talk about them all the time to exclusion of anything in which you may be interested. I’m going to need some extra time off this summer because I’m taking Molly and her friend to summer camp. I will miss her for a week, but we’ll be on the road for 3 days each way. Imagine the memories we’ll forge together. Because you know what’s most special about being a father? The memories. Not the bad ones mind you, just the good ones. There must be like a dozen of them by now. I can’t recall off the top of my head, but I know they are there. Like the time, Spencer fell down the steps and we had to go the ER on a Monday morning. I was so concerned about him I totally forgot to call in to work to let them know I wouldn’t make that client meeting. But hey, it’s my kid! They HAVE to understand.

Okay, I can’t keep that up without vomiting in my mouth. I get it. Really I do. We love our kids. But I get the sense that the real benefit here is all the memories. The first words, the first steps blah blah blah. “They say the darndest things!” Well, that’s because they have no sense of responsibility or accountability for what they say. You know what, I can do that too. In fact, I often do. As far as the memories go… hell, I can make those up and have them be just as real. So there we are. I’m a great dad! In fact, according to my coffee mug, I’m "The World's Greatest Dad!"

The point is, from now on, I have kids too. Deal with it.

You must now feel sorry for me raising two children on my own. Cut me some slack when I get short tempered. Understand that I can’t do you that favor or loan you that tool because I need it to take care the home I am keeping for my children. Yes, you have to listen to all my stories about them (really about me). So give me an extra tax credit or two and understand that I have to leave work early today, my daycare provider is leaving early and I have to pick up the kids. I can’t wait to see what the little rascals do tomorrow. I’ll be sure to tell you all about it.

People are people so why should it be?

Well it finally happened. I have given up on humanity. I’m always teetering on the edge of converting all my assets and credit into cash, changing my name to Miguel and going off the grid. But this weekend pushed me more than one step closer to a life of south-of-the-border siestas. At roughly 11:00pm Saturday night my girlfriend and I were at Blockbuster video in St. Paul. We went through all the new releases, took our time and found our selections for the evening. Aside from the annoying people in line ahead of us who didn’t have their membership information, it was a generally typical and not entirely unpleasant experience. I even purchased a bottle of orange soda for the drive home which turned out to be a more important purchase than I could have imagined.

Having my plans for the evening set and even my very own Orange Fanta, I approached the driver’s side of my girlfriend’s car with a sense of contentment. With my movies and my soda in my right hand, I reached down to lift the door handle of the little white KIA Rio with my left. “What the hell is that?” I ask myself as I quickly pull my fingers away from the now open door, feeling some sort of slimy texture. I looked down at my hand, not believing what I am seeing at first--I am in denial. “No, it can’t be…” But it is. There is simply no denying the familiar color and odor. There I stand, in muted horror, looking at my left hand covered in dog shit.

Yes, you heard that right my friend. Someone crammed dog shit under the handle of the driver’s side door of the car while we were in the movie store. Not just any dog shit mind you, but the light-brown, still warm, semi-liquid variety… just viscous enough to adhere, out of sight, underneath the door handle.

Calmly I walked to the front of the car, resigned to my fate, and using my Fanta, washed my hand off wiping it on the pavement, the grass, the dirt anything I could find. For some reason I did not panic, I did not issue forth a stream of obscenities, I simply walked back to the car, got in and looked at my girlfriend. She had this expression on her face that simply said, “What were you doing out there?” I answered in the only way I could. The only way anyone who had experienced such thing could: “Someone stuffed dog shit into the door handle.” What else can you say?

Really, what more need be said?

The Big Suck

So if you have anything important to say to anyone in your life, I suggest you do it within the next 45 days. You see, the Universe is about to unfold at a point and collapse in on itself. Not as the result of God’s final judgment on mankind, but rather as the result of curiosity. The Large Hadron Collider project is underway. The goal essentially is to bring about the Grand Unifying Theory of the Universe by bringing together such elusive concepts as gravity and energy. In other words, there are a bunch of scientists in an underground bunker in France trying to create black holes and inject matter into the Universe while simultaneously attempting to disrupt the gravitational constants that bind our little planet together so they can… “See what happens.”

This is the kind of shit that keeps me up at night.

I’m less afraid of nuclear war than I am of some Swedish scientist somehow ripping a gaping-wide whole in the space-time continuum or collapsing matter into itself in order to see what happens. I’m less afraid of killer bees… but only slightly because they still scare the hell out of me. I don’t think we’ll have time to see the effects of global climate change destroy our civilization. No… I am afraid of nerds. I went through this same anxiety about 5 years ago when some punk European scientist claimed that he was able to transport a particle of light or some such nonsense and have it exist simultaneously in two places. Wait a minute… is he actually adding matter to the Universe? WTF? Hold on a minute there… are you sure you’ve thought this one through? I mean, won’t that sort of break physics? It turns out he was wrong. How do I know this you ask? Well it’s simple really, we still exist.

I know, I know… “They said the same thing about breaking the sound barrier or the Manhattan Project”. Comparing the Manhattan Project to this little experiment in Universal Russian Roulette is like… well I am not sure what it’s like. I’m not sure what to compare this to other than it’s like comparing an atomic bomb to a black hole that’s filled with a bunch of atomic bombs.

That said, I can’t wait to see what happens.

The Dating Game

There’s a well documented phenomenon that I feel compelled to address… fat guys and the hot chicks who love them. Ever since Jackie Gleason made professional failure and spousal abuse hilarious on the Honeymooners, this has been a staple of the American sit-com, especially of the cartoon variety: The Flintstones, The Simpson’s, Family Guy, King of Queens just to name a few. As a short, aging fat guy I applaud this effort by the American media to brainwash the women of this country into buying into that double standard. Sadly however, I don’t think their efforts have been successful.

I was watching this show, Millionaire Matchmaker, where this oddly unattractive woman and her minions hook up millionaires with hotties who want to date them. Sort of the inverse of the fat guy hot wife sit-com phenom. It goes without saying that the stated policies Millionaire Matchmaker are that they do not accept girls who are gold diggers and the men are not allowed to have sex until the contract is over. Of course, this is all a lie. If this wasn’t about rich guys finding a chick they can pay to have sex with the show would just be called “Matchmaker”. So this is televised prostitution. I’m fine with that. But one thing I noticed sort of stuck out at me. There was this nice guy, obviously rich and successful, who didn’t seem like a dick and genuinely was looking for a relationship. Sounds like dream come true to these would-be heiresses. But very few were interested in him. Why you ask? Well because, in spite of being fairly good-looking, he was only 5’9”. What a loser! It’s not like these women were tall, they were like 5’6” to 5’9”.

This is, of course, shallow and lame. What’s that you say? “It’s a TV show Scott, what do you expect? That’s just those people they pre-screen for this to make it seem that people are pettier than they really are.”

Perhaps.

So today over lunch I perused the personals in a couple of local papers to get a sense for what people were looking for in a mate. I’ll admit, I’m not into the dating scene. I’m not on the market and haven’t been for quite some time. As such I was surprised by how little information was available. So I turned to the online standby: Match.com. As I perused the profiles of men and women looking for that special someone I noticed a common thread among all the profiles. They are all a pack of lies. Every God damned last one of them.

So in an effort to help out any single readers looking to meet that special someone here’s my handy translation to some of the most common lies I found:

What he says: “I’m looking for a woman who isn’t needy.”
What he means: “I’ll pay for dinner if you put out, but don’t expect me to talk about our ‘relationship’.”

What she says: “I want a man who is caring and patient who isn’t obsessed with sex.”
What she means: “I don’t give blow jobs.”

What he says: “I want a woman who can have a good time and I enjoy being with and just hanging out.”
What he means: “Do whatever I want to do when I want to do it and we’ll be fine… oh, and I’m broke.”

What she says: “I’m not into games.”
What she means: “I’m into games.”

What he says: “I’m a nice guy.”
What he means: “I’ve got a beer belly and I’m desperate to get laid.”

What she says: “I’m looking for a nice guy.”
What she means: “I’ve been cheated on, messed with and dumped repeatedly. I have a chip on my shoulder about it, but am still looking for a guy to do that to me again.”

What he says: “I don’t like the bar the scene.”
What he means: “I get drunk a lot and hit on chicks in bars without success.”

What she says: “I need a partner in crime.”
What she means: “I’m a tease.”

Oh and don’t forget about the “angles”. Be wary of the photos that clearly hid one’s true appearance. Shot at obscure angles with over lighting to conceal the fact that he/she weighs 250lbs or has a hunch-back.

Good luck out there.

Did You Hear the One About...

I have recently been reminded of my penchant for what I call “hyper-anti-climactic jokes”. Before I go into them, be advised, there are only five people on planet Earth who find this even remotely funny. Three of them read this blog and the other two are most likely in China or India. That said, here they are (continue reading at your own risk):

A horse walks into a bar. The bartender asks, “Why the long face?” The horse says, “I’ve had a really bad day.”

So a priest, a rabbi and a politician are on an airplane that’s about to crash. There are only two parachutes. One of them is going to die.

Two cannibals are eating a clown. The first cannibal asks, “Does this taste funny to you?” The second cannibal replies, “Nope, tastes fine to me.”

Hitler dies and meets Saint Peter at the gates of Heaven. He asks Peter, “So, can I get into Heaven?” Peter replies, “No.”

A man walks into a bar. He is an alcoholic who is destroying his family.

“Knock Knock” - “Who’s there?” - “Someone at the door.”

How many goldfish does it take to screw in a light bulb? Goldfish can’t screw in light bulbs.

So a blonde, a brunette and a red-head all jump off of a cliff at the same time. Who will hit the ground first? Answer: Hair color doesn’t impact the speed with which an object falls.

So this family goes to see a talent agent. The agent says, "Okay, tell me about your act." “Well... the grandmother fucks a goat. The mom and dad do it doggy-style in a church pew. There's finger fucking, dildo-licking, group sex, beastiality, and for the finale grampa fucks a dead guy up the ass.” The shocked talent agent says: "What do you call yourselves?” "The Smiths."

I was going to acknowledge those who contributed some of these jokes. Then I thought better of it, assuming they would prefer to remain anonymous.

Oh The Weather Outside is Frightful... So Fuck Off!

It’s no surprise to anyone who knows me that I am a victim of “SAD”--Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder. I had to look that up because I really think it should be pronounced the same but the acronym should read “SED”. I guess it just doesn’t roll off the tongue as nicely. I know Spring is in the air. I have previously written about the hope and optimism the season brings as if I was Barack Obama himself. This morning as I peered out my window to see the heavy snow falling I remembered why I hate hope and optimism. I’m just so sick of being dissapointed. I’m not sure to whom I should attribute this quote… perhaps it’s me: “Optimists are always dissapointed, while pessimists are pleasantly surprised.” There are a whole class of people who claim: “I love the Winter! I love to go out and cross-country ski and go ice fishing and snowmobiling and walking along the frozen shore of an ice-covered lake.”

Those people piss me off.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy being outdoors; camping, boating, hiking as much as anyone. But in the winter? I sense some sort of contrived attempt to hide the appearance of SAD amongst these people. I mean, no one really enjoys freezing their ass off and excercising at the same time do they? “Hey look at me! I’m fit and in-shape and enjoy outdoor winter activities. Aren’t I an optimistic go-getter getting the most of life?” No, you’re an annoying, self-delusional liar and we all know it.

Bite me.

Back to my point. I have SAD. I get depressed and consumed by a sense of ennui and morose internal reflection: “What have I done with my life?” “What have I accomplished?” “Where did my hopes and dreams of a life filled with love and adventure go?”. You know… the usual shit one goes through when they haven’t seen the sun or felt the warm evening breeze in forty days and forty nights. I’m not alone. It’s to be expected when you live in a place like Minnesota (or God help you, North Dakota). But there is a point in the season where my Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder starts to become Meteorological Affectiveness Disorder and instead of walking around all sullen and despondent, I’m just… pissed off. “Fuck you winter! Get the hell off my front lawn!”

It’s these last days of winter when it is, in fact, actually spring that really get me MAD. I’m not feeling introspective, I’m feeling MAD. I am just about done with this. The only small amount of joy I take in a late season heavy snow fall (eight inches forecasted for today) is that those annoying snow-shoeing winter activity people are exhausted by now. The fraudulent front of optimism has been worn down. They can no longer maintain the lie and they fall victim to SAD themselves. The usually up-beat, stupid, happy grin on their faces is replaced with a malaise and a grimace that I recognize immediately. In the true spirit of schadenfreude, I find a sense of calming satisfaction in their suffering. “Don’t like all this snow huh? Wish it was warm? Sick of shoveling and scraping windows and cold, wet socks?”

Welcome to winter.

Small = Cute

I am sure somewhere there is a detailed explanation of this--either from some scholarly journal of psychology or, more likely, from a particularly astute comedian. Same thing.

The stereotype here is that this is a “girl thing”. As usual, the stereotype is correct. We have all noticed that women embrace the word cute much more than men. Ladies, men don’t like being called “cute” to our faces. Like the words ‘menstruation’ or ‘commitment’; cute is word better left spoken only to your girlfriends. In other words, calling a man cute is exactly the same as saying he has a small penis.

For some reason absolutely anything small is cute. As many of you know, I recently purchased a Cooper Mini. “It’s so cute!” Like a kitten, or a Keebler Elf. If the value of money were set by women, the dime would be the most valuable denomination.

As a man, I have struggled with the reason for this all my life. Why the hell is ANYTHING small immediately and unquestionably “cute”? The answer is so simple. It’s part of the genetic, instinctive desire to possess, create and care for something small. A baby.

Babies aren’t cute because they are small. Small things are cute because they are like babies.

I guess this is typically why men like things to be large. We hate babies.

I See Drunk People

So yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day--or as I prefer to call it: “rookie night”. Don’t get me wrong. I love the Irish culture. There’s something beautiful about an entire people dedicated to drinking themselves silly and getting into a fist fight with their own family members. I’ve spent my fair share of time in Irish pubs; it’s my preference for 364 days of the year. But on rookie night, I’d rather French-kiss the urine encrusted Blarney Stone than spend my time watching 25 year old girls vomiting green beer into their own shoe.

As Americans we have, for some reason, really embraced the Irish culture. But I just don’t see how. I mean, I like strong beer and the sound of bagpipes in the morning… but I get the impression that most of America doesn’t. So what gives? I mean, what has this wonderful culture given us that the typical, American St. Patrick’s Day reveler appreciates? I mean, I don’t see Guinness out-selling Miller Light any time soon, and I certainly don’t expect men to take to the streets en masse wearing kilts. I don’t expect to see hip-hop replaced by Celtic classics. So really, this is just an excuse to behave like a stupid, pathetic drunk--which is too bad since these rookies don’t have the necessary drinking skills to pull it off with anything approximating a true Irishmen’s skill.

Going to an Irish pub on St. Patrick’s Day is as fun as a barrel full of monkeys. You must realize however, that a bunch of angry, drunk monkeys crammed into a barrel will start flinging their own feces at you and clawing each other’s eyes out.