Friday, August 31, 2007

i am in a fight...

As I was on the way to the gym yesterday, I felt something large crawling up my leg. I have fairly hairy legs, however, so gaging size based on the tactile feedback of hair displacement can be difficult and deceptive.
It felt big though. It had some mass. I could feel it's weight on my leg. I yelped like a small girl and almost turned into oncoming traffic trying to get whatever it was off my leg.
Those of you who have been reading stuff I've written for some time, might be reminded of the fight I had with the imaginary rat that lived behind the firewall of my VR6. If I can find the recount of that fight, I will post it. THIS was different though.
This time, I actually saw the thing I was fighting with.
It dragged its fat body off my leg and landed on the floor of the car with an audible plop. (I may have colored this detail in with my mind. I can admit to imaginus overactus.) It then, somehow, though the size of a mini-dvd, disappear.
I am not big into the squishing of living things. I avoid stepping on ants and will not kill what doesn't need to be killed. Mosquitoes actively sucking my blood need to be killed.
Giant mutant killer spiders, scuttling around my feet, giving me sickening waves of revulsion, need to be killed.
I started stomping my feet around, trying to shmoosh it. I couldn't find it though. It was gone.
But... it is NOT gone. It is performing stealth attacks on me. It is biting me, the little mother...
Check this out:
what IS that?

See? Do you see!? Evidence of the attack. I'm not crazy. YOU'RE crazy!

Can anyone guess what body part that is, by the way? I took the picture, and it's my body, and I can't quite tell what it is.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

the infant of prague... no, really...

Here it is.
Again, the quality is not... Well that's just it. The quality is really not.
But still, it's me in a dopey costume.

Have fun.

infant of prague update...

I am uploading the video of me as the I of P as we speak. Or rather, as I type and you read.
In the meantime, for those who have never seen it, here is a movie I made last year.
It's about a trip to the mall.
I call it "Trip to the Mall".

swarvey acts...

Here is video from the showcase of my scene study class last night. The video is not quite the quality of your average Loch Ness Monster footage, but it will give you some idea of what went on.

OR... not.

Apparently blogger does not have all the bugs worked out of its video upload portion.

Stay tuned.

Sunday, August 26, 2007

sorry anonymous...

I have started receiving spam comments, so I have had to turn off the ability for non-registered users to comment.
Here's a big Sorry to those weak-spined and/or lazy bastards who were posting under anonymous in the first place.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

cashew juice update...

First off, I am spelling cashew correctly. I feel good about that.
Secondly, while the work crew mentioned in my last post was having the mid-day pizza, which I believe is required by law under these circumstances, a lady poured herself a big cup of the cashew juice.
Now, I knew she thought it was lemon aid, because that's what makes sense to have on a table with pizza for a bunch of people who have been working in a brownie all day.
As she brought it to her lips, he nose caught wind of what was going on and told her mouth to not take the big gulp she would have taken normally.
She took an apprehensive little sip. Then she made a face similar to the face I believe I made when I first heard about the website devoted to counting down to when the Olsen twins, who were nine at the time, would be "legal".
She said, brightly, "Oh! This doesn't taste right to me at all!"
"It's cashew juice." I offered helpfully.
"Is THAT what it is?", she said. Then promptly dumped it in the garbage.

Mmmm. Cashew juice.

cashew juice...

Having a big clean up day around the mill building Jenn and I live in. About 12 tenants trying to trim back a couple of decades worth of over growth. Hacking and hauling bushes, small trees, medium sized trees and various vine-ed vegetation.
It's 85 degrees out with a good level of humidity. By good, I mean a lot. The air is warm and moist. It is like breathing a nice, fresh brownie, just out of the oven.
We are dirty, smelly and bordering on miserable, though people are all struggling to stay positive and energized.
One way we are all doing this is by sharing fluids with each other. Do not make clinical assumptions. I'm talking about sharing jugs (heh) of water and Gatoraid and what have you.
One nice Brazilian lady proffered a yellowish fluid. It was sloshing around invitingly. It looked like lemon aid. I like lemon aid. It was not lemon aid.
It was cashew juice. Don't know if I'm spelling that right. Cashew, like the nut. The nut you eat. Not drink.
Still, it looked good.
But, it smelled bad. It smelled like compost.
You'd think, if something smelled like compost, you would avoid putting it in your mouth.
She was standing right there after pouring it, telling us about Brazil and crap.
I suggest, if you have a cup of something in front of you that smells like compost, go with your natural instinct to NOT put it in your mouth, even if the person who gave it to you nicely is still standing there waiting for you to drink it. Make an excuse for why you cannot drink at that second. Try this, "Oh! I have to take my anti-psychotic medications just now. I'll wash them all down with this lovely cup of cashew juice! But I have to take a lot of them so I'll need the whole cup! Be back later! Thank you!"
I was not able to come up with anything as clever as that at the moment so I drank some.

Cashew juice tastes like a bunch of dirty butts.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

oh swarvey, you suck...

Someone I work with was talking about his extra-worklife activities. He plays keys for a couple of different bands and does some DJ-ing. He is presenting an evening of jocularity at a new-ish club in Fall River.
As I lived in Fall River 15 years ago, he asked me if I knew about the club that opened this spring.
After finding out that I did not know the club, he explained where it was in the city. It's in just about the roughest area they could have thought of in which to build a club.
At least, the roughest area of Fall River.
If you had the roughest area of Fall River fight the roughest area of, say, Philly, the roughest area of Fall River would put on a dress and cower under a couch.
Still, not a great place to build your club. I said so.
He said that there was a time when a bad element had taken up residence of the club, but that the owner has had the bad element moved out.
I said, with requisite confidence and flair, "Oh? Did he bring Dillon in?"
I got no response from the table. I was pissed off and disappointed. I eat with some fairly well-versed movie guys. I expected someone to know what I was talking about. No one did.
"Man. Road House? Hello?", I said in frustration.
Almost in unison the table of people I was yelling at for being dopey told me the name I was looking for was DALTON, not DILLON.
Damn it.
I was cowed. I usually have a witty retort, well, I usually have A retort. But I got nothin'.
It might have been a nice little joke. It might have been happy. Instead, I clubbed it like a seal.

How could I forget? How could I forget?


Forgive me, Swayze.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007


Welcome to!
I might make bumperstickers.
Maybe can openers.

Would you like a can opener with on it? How cool would it be to see my page name while cracking open a can of pork n' beans?

Ooh. Even better. brand pork n' beans...

What would YOU like to see printed on?

Look. I made a logo. Check it out.


You can see from the crazy letters of my logo that wackiness could break out here at any second.
I'm serious.

Tell me you can't see it across a mousepad or blood sugar level testing device.

reason for bailing on "blog"...

I was flipping through channels the other night and happened upon an episode of The Suite Life of Zack and Cody, which is one of my daughter's favorite shows. It makes Full House look like The West Wing.
In the five seconds I was looking, I gathered the boys got themselves a job in a Colonial times themed grocery store. Everyone was wearing 3-corner hats and vests with buttons. It was either Colonial times or Adam and the Ants themed, and no one was wearing a lot of eye make-up, so...
They work for a fat manager guy. The only line I heard was the fat manager guy stating he had posted some thing or other to his blog.
If a pretend fat manager guy in a 3-corner hat on the Suite Life of Zack and Cody has a blog, I don't want one.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

an announcement...

Swarveyland will no longer be referred to as a "blog", because I've decided the word is overused, hokey and horrible.
From now on, this is the Swarveyland page, or, if you prefer, just Swarveyland.
There are some reading this now who will say, "Swarvey, call it what you like, it's still a blog." You know who you are, and I ask you, politely, to piss off.
It is not lost on me that Swarveyland exists in a larger realm known as, however, I don't care. I'm calling it a page.
When you start your own collection of stupid stories, you can call it what you want.

funny quotes from lunch...

Today at lunch we were talking movies based on true stories and how some of these movies involve presenting vital plot points that were not witnessed by anyone living.
One example was Flight 93. In the movie, the passengers plan to overtake the terrorists by storming the cockpit, but no one really knows what happened during the flight.
The other one that came up was The Perfect Storm. Once the other boats head back and the Andrea Gail kept sailing out there was no further contact from them. There is no way to guess what happened. It's all conjecture.
Fine. This is not an earth-shaking conversation.
One of the guys I was eating with asked, "Was the movie based on a true story or real events?"
I lost it. I am rude sometimes and have no control and will laugh at you if you do something funny. This comment struck me and hugely funny and I guffaw-ed my butt off.
While I was laughing at him, he said, "Hey. At least I got someone laughing. I'm glad I aim to please."
Then I died.

almost died...

In my scene study class, I am playing the Infant of Prague. The lady I am in the scene with is a master seamstress, so she threw together the costume. I would rather have gone with no costume, and by that I do not mean I wanted to be naked, 'cause, just no.
I just wanted to have some items that made it clear I was who I was supposed to be. A crown. The little ball thing. Maybe just a robe with some beads on it. No big deal.
She went with kind of a big deal and made a small monstrosity of a costume. I am going to ask Jenn to video the scene presentation night next week and I will present the video here. Both so you can marvel at the enormity of my talent, and also so you get a better understanding of just what this costume looks like.
Pictograph-man will model a facsimile.
See how the costume is all puffy? It should be very clear from the above. Well, it's puffy. Trust me. It's puffy because it is hollow and filled with newspaper to keep it from collapsing. Only, it isn't filled with a small amount of wadded up newspaper so that AIR helps to keep it puffy. She just kind of filled it with newspaper. Flat newspaper. To get enough volume to maintain the puffy, she used A LOT of newspaper. It weighs about 25 pounds.
25 pounds is not a great amount of weight, I know. But it's all in the bottom of the costume. It's weird to have extra weight down near your knees. Couple that with the fact that my lower legs are sticking out of a restricting hole about a foot in diameter, and the whole thing becomes significantly cumbersome and difficult to manage and it throws my center of gravity off.
At one point in the scene, I need to step onto a riser, really a couple of wooden cubes, maybe two feet high, because my character is vain, and is showing off his costume.
I don't remember what happened, but I lost my footing and went off the cube. Somehow, my feet got over my head. I really can't build, in my mind, a sequence of events to get me there, but Pictograph-man will demonstrate the position in which I ended.
See where the head and back of the neck are there on the ground? That was my impact point. All of my 205 pounds came down on that small area.
There was a lot of crunching and cracking on impact and I had a second of total panic as I waited for complete numbness in my limbs or massive pain.
Neither came. I'm a little sore today, but that's it.
What makes it scary, for me, is how fast it happened. I know how to control a fall. I know how to do a Chevy Chase kind of trip and stuff. Later in the scene, I fall backwards over the same riser I had stepped on to and I know how to do it to avoid injury.
If Fate had decided I was going to come down, exactly on the top of my head, surely snapping my neck, there wasn't anything I could have done about it. It was like, blink SLAM! I'm not superhuman. I'm neither Neo nor SpiderMan. I can't control time. I'm soooo mortal.
Gah. I need a good shot of delusion.

I remember when I was a teenager and me and my friends watched Faces of Death. When it was over, I remember thinking that all this time, we humans were walking around thinking we could withstand a lot of damage, but that we were really made of marshmallow and pipe-cleaners and that we could be torn apart by a billion different actions the world could commit in an instant.
It took some significant encouragement to get me out of the recliner I was sitting in.
Falling off this riser was a similar experience.

At the end of the scene, the woman points a gun at me and shoots me several times.
It is shocking to have a gun pointed at you.
It is off-putting to have it go off with loud report, while it is held by some person you don't really know, you haven't had time to investigate the gun for safety and wouldn't know a safe gun from a dangerous gun in any case.
After she shot me, I stumbled backwards and went off the stage into the seats. Again, without really meaning to and with little control.

I feel like I faced Death twice yesterday and count myself lucky to still be walking.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

archives II...

Here's an excerpt from some of the stand up comedy I did. Most of what I wrote then exceeds the no-vulgarity clause in effect in Swarveyland. This one skirts the clause, and the entire bit is not presented here and what is has been edited. The rest of it goes off in a weird direction that makes me kind of uncomfortable. However, I believe that's what I was going for.

One of the things I hate is when some guy feels the sudden urge to talk to me, and he’s naked. Thankfully this only usually happened in the gym locker room where I worked. Really it was only this one guy, but still.

“Say Eric, about that report…”

“Say Charlie, about those pants…”

“What pants?”

“Good question.”

Charlie would come out of the steam room and want to have a conversation. He’d just stand there, all naked and sweaty, legs apart. Very comfortable. He was just so comfortable with his nakedness and that is SO wrong. His comfortableness threw off the entire curve. So I’d say something and he’d ask if I was uncomfortable and I’d say yes.

I would say, “Tell me something. You have a towel around your neck, a towel over your shoulder and a towel in your left hand. You have three towels on you and yet your dick is still out. How is that?”

He would tell me he grew up in Iceland and there he was taught that there was nothing wrong with being naked. I would say “Let me, then, be the first to welcome you to the shores of America, where I can assure you there is something wrong with being naked. Especially with YOU being naked, now, in front of me where I can see how naked you are.

See, here’s the deal, my eyes are drawn to places they don’t want to go.”

Here’s what I mean by that. What he was doing was out of the norm. Our eyes are naturally drawn to that which is different. If I was talking to someone and they were juggling, it would be distracting, too. And I’d still be looking at the balls.


I love finding crap I have written before and forgot about. I love it because it reminds me what an excellent writer and truly interesting individual I am and how lucky you all are to know me/read this stupid crap.
Jenn found an add on Craig's about people in Providence looking for voice-over talent. I do voice-over stuff, and am working on the talent bit.
A couple of years ago, I did a long stretch of being laid off. During that time I tried to get a voice-over business, via the INtraWeb, going. It didn't work out very well. But I did have a couple of snazzy demo presentations made. They are on a back-up CD from my previous machine.
As I was looking for them this morning to present to the Craig's list ad people (which I am 100% sure are 100% legit), I found the below, which ties in nicely.

A couple of years back, I spent a period of about 18 months absolutely unemployed. The first three were great. It was summer, I was still getting paid. It was an extended vacation. With my resume, I felt quite confident that I would have a job as soon as I really started looking.

As the time stretched out and out and out and I was really looking but still not finding anything, I researched different ways to keep myself occupied and to maybe make a little money.

I tried starting a voice-over business, as I have always been told I have a lovely speaking voice. Apparently forty million other people have also always been told they have lovely speaking voices as well, because that’s how many people have voice over business.

Those who have read some things I’ve written have told me I have a lovely way of writing, so I tried my hand at small time publication. I was not quite as successful as I had been while doing voice over work.

Time wore on and on. I became panicked a lot of the time as every unemployment check was one unemployment check closer to the LAST unemployment check. I had no idea at all what I was going to do after the last unemployment check.

I was depressed.

I felt worthless.

It was time to do stand up comedy.

A club had opened in the Providence Place Mall. It was a Jazz/Comedy/Bistro arrangement. It’s no longer in business. Go figure. Who could have guessed it would fail?

They had open mic night on Wednesdays. For those who are not initiated, open mic night is not exactly what it sounds like. They don’t let anyone in the crowd just come up and start yakking. There is a process. It’s not an extensive process, though.

Allow me to describe the process.

One Wednesday night, I went in and found the guy who was the leader of the open mic scene. His name was John. He was a good guy. Did not strike me as a hell of a happy guy. As it turns out, most of the people who are doing stand up comedy are not hell of a happy guys. Me included.

This Wednesday night, the show, if I may use the word, was already under way. I met John and asked him about a spot. He looked at list of names scrawled on a slightly damp napkin and asked me if 9:30 was okay.

I said, “9:30? When? Next week.”

“No.”, he replied, “Tonight.”

It was 9:10.

I said I didn’t think I’d be able to make it without at least a half hour to prepare something. It was a joke. I figured I was talking to a guy who did stand up, he might appreciate a joke.

Piece of advice. Don’t joke with stand ups. They don’t seem to like it much.

I was serious about preparing though. I was going to prepare and prepare thoroughly. When I was nineteen, I had my first experience doing stand up. It took me about fifteen years to get up the nerve to do it again.

There was another comedy club in another mall in Fall River. This was like ’88 or something. I had just graduated from high school and I was king of improv class. I was a riot. Everyone said so. I killed all the time. I was pure genius.

I gathered a group of friends and brought them all to this club to watch me. I prepared exactly nothing. On purpose. I was going to get up on stage and wing it, flat out.

I did a great impression of both Fat Man AND Little Boy. I was a smoldering crater.

Not this time. I was not going to make the same mistake again. This time I wrote exactly seven minutes of what I thought was pretty good material.

A couple of weeks later I got up and I did well. John could not believe it was the first time I had been on stage. I decided not to tell him about when I was nineteen. The only person I had in the audience I knew was my sister. People laughed and clapped and she was very proud of me.

I really dug it.

This started a series of about three months of doing open mic night in a comedy club in Providence. One thing doing open mic night in a comedy club in Providence taught me, was never do open mic night in a comedy club in Providence.

Friday, August 17, 2007

why swarvey is stupid...

I spend four or five days a week at the gym. Get my heart rate up to 155bpm on a regular basis and lift respectably at least twice a week.
I am doing cardio as I write this, in fact.
I am bummed out by the fact that my forward movement towards fitness and definition has slowed. It hasn't quite reversed yet, but it has slowed.
Maybe its because if someone brings donuts or cookies within my sight, I have to eat much more than is reasonable.
Who eats five donuts in a day?
Dumbass me.


Brushing my teeth this morning reminded me of a guy I knew when I was in my late-teens to mid-twenties.
He was part of a race that considered cost-consciousness kind of a national pass time.
For instance, he was unfortunate enough to be whacked with hard core male pattern baldness at about 21. He wasn't like me who never really had a lot of hair to start with. He had a nice, thick head-full, that bailed on him.
He'd wake up in the morning and his pillow would look like a giant brown caterpillar. Bleagh.
Being so young, he was very concerned with his rapidly decreasing hair supply. As he had spent so much of his life in such a cost-conscious way, he had some dough in the bank. He pulled a bunch of it out, thousands of it, at least 3,000, and got himself a high-end toupee/weave deal. Basically, they take a wig and pull your own hair through it, both to keep the wig on and to give a more natural blend between fakee and not fakee.
It looked great, for about 2 weeks. See, it wasn't just the initial cost that was prohibitive. The upkeep on the thing was insane.
After two weeks, you'd need to go it and get your underhair, which kept growing, cut. You could wash your head whenever you wanted, no problem. But the length of the hair holding the wig down needed to be maintained.
He took care of it a twice in the right amount of time, but after that the time between kept getting longer and longer. He would eventually look like someone who had sustained a massive head trauma and part of their scalp was somewhat peeled off and flapping.
The ladies loved it.
But for him, the cost was too much. He had kind of a hair hat that covered the baldest spot, sort of, and that appeared to be enough most of the time.
I would have just gone with a regular hat.

The title of this post is listerine, though, and that's what reminded me of him.
Being the cost-conscious fellow he was, he would gargle with Listerine, then spit it back in the bottle. He had the same bottle for more than a year.
Suddenly, I have to brush my teeth again.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

quotes of the day...

I have quotes of the day as part of my nifty iGoogle homepage.
Today's quote is this:

If the Phone Doesn't Ring, It's Me
-Jimmy Buffet

It makes me realize for not the first time in my life and for what I assume will not be the last, that I cannot frigging STAND Jimmy Buffet.
If the phone doesn't ring it's me. Screw you! If no one ever buys another copy of Cheeseburger in Paradise, it's ME!
Speaking of that horrible song, no one calls them "french fried potatoes", you hack looking for something to rhyme with tomato because you're singing about a cheeseburger.
Where's my thesaurus?
Let's see...
I abhor you. That's good.
I detest and loath you. Excellent.
I find you insufferable, sir.
I can bear neither your visage nor your countenance.
The only combination of parrot and head I want to hear is a news report about a giant mutant parrot eating your head. THAT would be quite the quirk of fate, would it not?

world's oldest person...

World's oldest person, Yone Minagawa, dies at age 114

She was 114 years old when she died. I'm trying to imagine how a 114 year old brain, living in a 114 year old skull, looks at the world.
I can't.
I feel out of touch if I've lost a couple of hours of sleep or if lunch is a little late.
I figure by the time I'm 80 I will be indiscernible from the bowl of Tapioca I will probably be gurgling my way through.

The world's oldest person is now 114-year-old Edna Parker of Shelbyville.
This is said to piss Springfield right off.

more traffic stuff...

I drive home from Franklin, MA to North Providence, RI everyday. There is construction going on almost constantly on 495 which I drive on until I exit to 95. Recent construction has been just before the exit to 95. The highway goes from three lanes with a breakdown, to two lanes with no breakdown.
If you are in the middle lane of the highway, that's where you should remain, if you want to get onto 95. If you are in the slow lane, all the way to the right, you need to merge left, before ultimately going right onto the exit.
Hopefully this all makes sense.
In order for things to flow smoothly, we have to be humane to each other. We have to be like a giant zipper. Someone in the middle lets someone in the right merge in, the next guy on the right allows the next person in the middle lane to continue and merges behind them, and so on and on and on.
If everyone plays fair, it works great.
As I was approaching this area the other day, there was a guy behind me in a gold BMW. It might have actually been made of gold, I don't know. He was behind me as we entered the zipper zone. He did not want to play the zipper game, for some reason. He wanted to gain just one more car length, perhaps his gold car was becoming pock marked, as gold is a very soft metal. So he broke zipper formation and pulled up along me on the right, attempting to pass on the ass of the guy on my right who was in perfect merging form.
I have abandoned road rage and all other rages. I used to be crazy and I have a story about where crazy behavior got me, which I will tell you soon, but I am not crazy anymore. I've let it all go and it really takes a great deal to get me angry now.
But I was not going to let gold BMW in. No sir. Not today.
It became one of those games where he tries to sneak in and I nudge the gas a little harder and we end up driving in parallel, looking at each other, until he completely runs out of room and needs to hail-mary break, or I give in and let him in.
He was staring at me.
I was staring at him, feeling quite tough. You're not winning this round, Goldy. Yeah. That's right. I'll kick your ass if I have to. I got a damned tattoo on my HEAD!!
I had this little testosterone fit, until I realized I was listening to the song I have included below.
At exactly 3 minutes in, you'll hear the soulful sax solo that was playing while most of this traffic jockeying was going on.
Don't get on my bad side, buddy. Grrrrr.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007


You might be a stereotype. You might be. You might be a hairy Italian dude wearing a wife-beater and a lot of gold chains over track pants. You might be. I don't know.
If you are a stereotype, of any kind, you don't have to go out of your way to be the mostest stereotype-y you can possibly be.
Coming in to work this morning, I ran into a long line of traffic. This was the kind of mystery traffic that appeared to have no cause. There was no accident, there wasn't even a guy changing out a tire on the side of the road which is usually interesting enough for people to slow down for.
There was nothing.
At least, it looked like there was nothing, until I ran into the stereotype.
He was driving a small Honda in the middle lane, at exactly 55 miles an hour, in a 65 mile per hour zone. On the left hand side of his rear bumper, there was a Phish sticker. On the right, LIVING GREEN. Traffic was forced to flow around him on both sides, effectively slowing everyone down.
When I got closer to him, I noticed that his back seat was crammed full of camping equipment. As I passed him, I saw him actually push a handful of granola into his unshaven face.
I expected him to throw a patculli-scented Birkenstock at me on my way by.
With his living green attitude, I'm sure he feels good about himself and the fact that his driving 55 at all times is gaining him 15mpg or so. I wonder if anywhere in his head is the miles of ripple effect stop and go traffic he has caused behind him, which probably offset his mpg benefit by 100s of times.
Stereotypes are bad for the environment.

Saturday, August 11, 2007

poise in a crisis...

A crisis will bring out a person's true nature. Even a small crisis.
Jenn and I came home tonight after seeing a movie. When we got off the elevator, we were startled by a dark blot swooping through the air in the foyer between the elevator door and the door to the hallway.
I stood there, a little shocked, trying to figure out what it was. Jenn left me in a cloud of dust, not even pausing to hold the door to the hallway for me. She didn't actually slam the door to the hallway to leave me as a sacrifice to the bat, which is what the blot was, but it was close.

a drink...

I work in a program for my company where large groups of new employees are trained together over a nine-week period on the basics of all the technologies they will use in their positions.
This group has taken a liking to this energy drink:

I would not drink this drink.
I would drink something called Skroat, though.

Thursday, August 9, 2007

buying a gun...

The scene I am in for scene study class requires Sally Jessy Raphael to shoot me. I have been tasked with finding a suitable gun for her to shoot me with. Unless we find a prop-munitions guy, we're going to need a toy gun that goes, "Bang!", when you pull the trigger.
I figured this would not be hard to find. You used to be able to buy them all over the place. As I am kind of an adult and don't shop for toys for myself anymore, and as I have a 10 year old daughter, and have not had to shop for toys for boys, I totally missed the fact that they apparently don't sell guns like that anymore.
I looked.
I went to:
World's Biggest Toystore, right?
Let's see what they had.

They had a lot of this kind of thing:
These "guns" made all kinds of whooshing and zapping sounds, and ping-ping and warble-warble-zaaaa! But none of them went, "Bang!" They didn't look like real guns anyway. They looked like something an Asian actor in 1974 might throw at Mothra when he realized he was out of ammunition.

Then I found this interesting item:

Oooh. That had Soldier right there in the title. Here are the contents of this playset:

The details:

What's missing? A gun. No gun. What's a soldier without a gun? An ELECTRONIC soldier is what.
Some interesting things in here though. An "interactive" belt. I dare you to make a belt that is not "interactive". I dare you. Go on.
You also have yourself a medal. I guess you could get a medal for telling on the enemy with your walkie talkie.
And, you have dog tags. These will come in handy when you have to be identified after you're killed for bringing a whistle to a gun fight.
This is a totally unrealistic collection of items for a soldier to be carrying and still be considering himself a soldier. Totally unrealistic. Now, if they had included the gun, but NEGLECTED the body armor, THAT would be realistic.
And that is about the limit of how political it should get around here. I hope you enjoyed that.
Moving on...

It was clear I was not going to find what I was looking for, so I moved on to:
Sorry the picture is so blurry. A pig was chasing me through the parking lot while I took it.
Have you ever seen the people who shop here? There's no way PC society has deemed them too precious to have access to toy guns that go, "Bang!", right?

Here's what we find.
A whole lot of this. BRATZ have to be worse for society than toy guns. They have to be.
I find no toy guns.

I keep looking around and find:


I guess no one is concerned about kids shooting their eyes out.

I have to be honest and cop to the fact that I was looking for the section of the store where they sold actual guns. I was going to be all on a soap box about the hypocrisy of them selling real, shoot a real guy, guns, but no toy guns that go, "Bang!" Damn it. There is no such section here. I guess you need to drive past South of the Border for that.
Oh well.

I go back to the toy section to see if I missed anything, when I discover some weirdness.
Take a look at this:
A SpiderMan 3 themed BRATZ doll.

Then I find this:
A SpiderMan themed Operation game!?! That's odd.
This box is confusing. Is Doc Oc working on Spidey? Are you playing Doctor Octopus? If you are, doesn't that skew the desired outcome of the game?

But it's nothing compared to the oddest thing I saw during this little shopping trip:

Can you read what this is? A SpiderMan 3 themed Bug Habitat. What? I mean, really. What? Why would you...? Who thought this was...? What?

You have separate entrances to the habitat, for the:

And for the:

Who is making the determination on which bug is what type? Is there another whole playset where you raise some bugs under stressful circumstances until they turn to a life of crime? If there is, I couldn't find it.

Eventually, I stumble across this hidden section of the WalMart:
It's got caps for six-shooters and rifles, but it's all cowboy themed and everyone knows cowboys are fags.

a quickie...


Clap for bacon.

from cincinatti

QUEENSGATE - He took a bullet over 25 cents.

Donald Francis, who police believe was homeless, stood outside the Marathon station at Eighth and Linn streets late Monday night, asking people for money.

That annoyed Geraldine Beasley so much, Chief Tom Streicher said, that she shot and killed Francis when he approached her,

"He asked her for a quarter," the chief said Tuesday.

Beasley, 62, of Walnut Hills, complained to someone else at the scene about the panhandling, Streicher said. Then, he said, when Francis asked her for money, she pulled out a gun and fired.

"That's apparently all there was to it," the chief said.

Beasley was charged with murder after police collected evidence at the scene and spoke to witnesses and Beasley, court documents said.

Beasley was in court today and ordered held on a $500,000 bond. Her attorney, Mass Ionna, told Hamilton County Municipal Court Judge Fanon Rucker that his client has mental issues.

Hamilton County Municipal Court Judge Fanon Rucker was then heard to say, "Ya think!?"

I love it when they use this joke on The Suite Life of Zack and Cody and other great Disney shows like That's So Raven, Corey in the House and Hanna Montana. Disney makes sure they put the names of the people on the show in the names of the shows, so the kids don't forget who they're supposed to be watching.

a story about cool cuz to kill time...

My dog decided to bypass the thirty-something toys she has and climb up onto my desk, last night, to eat my headphones.
I must have recently offended a god of making stuff keep functioning, because yesterday my work laptop went into the light. The hard drive died and our IT department didn't have any more so one had to be ordered. This is interesting because I work for the largest data storage company in the world. On any given day, I am within walking distance of PETABYTES of storage capability, but there are no hard drives available.
So, as I have no laptop on which to work and as my dog ate my headphones, which I use all the time!!!... Nice dog. She is a good dog. I love my dog. I will not kill my dog...
I went to the Premium Outlets to hit the Sony store to get me some new headphones. I got here at about quarter past nine, just in time for the stores to open at ten.
Killing time now...
When we were teenagers, my cousin was in the best shape of anyone I knew. The passing of years have not been kind to him, but then...? He was a hunky jock.
Being a hunky jock, he had to go to football practice in the summer to prepare for the upcoming season.
I assume he was on the team, but maybe he used to just go to the practices for fun.
In any case, he was at a practice when me and a mutual friend decided to mess with him. We went into his room and re-arranged it completely. Moved everything. Didn't trash it, just made it into a different room.
He had a poster on his wall reading, "Don't lose sight of your goals."
I changed it so it read, "Where are my goals?"
Stuff like that.
Me and this friend went into my aunt and uncle's bedroom and waited for him to get home.
We timed it well. He was home about five minutes after we finished.
We dove under his parents bed and waited for the reaction when he went into his room. But he didn't go into his room.
He grabbed some snacks and sat down to watch television in the den right outside his parent's bedroom.
He began talking, freely and loudly, at the television.
"Oh no! Oohh! Watch out! No! That's going to explode! See? I told you that was going to explode... Oh, now what are you doing? You don't listen at all, do you? Hahahaaa! Yay!"
This is not verbatim, but it is true in spirit.
The friend and I were about ten feet away from him, trying to stay silent under a bed. I was trying to not laugh so hard, I really thought I was going to hurt myself. He and I were crying and punching each other to be quiet.
Then cousin started enjoying his snacks. I think he was eating Devil Dogs and drinking milk.
"Oooohhh. Oooohhh this is sooo good. Mmmmmm. Oh this is yummy. (Slurp, slurp). Mmmmmm! Ahh! Oh man, does that hit the spot!"
Please, keep in mind that he thought he was alone in the house. He was almost YELLING in his pleasure.
Just when I thought I could not take more, he left the den. We somehow managed to not alert him.
Finally, he opens the door to his room, steps in, and says, "What the FFFFFFFFFF...!?". He never actually finishes the word.
And that was it. That was the very last thing we could take. We bust out from under the bed and lose it completely.
It was great. What was the most great, and one of the things that make him HIM, was that he never changed the room back. He even left the poster as I had changed it.

Sony store is open now.
Thank you.

Wednesday, August 8, 2007


I have ads on my page now. Apparently they are Ads by Goo, which has a nice ring to it.
Swarvey is now officially a blog-whore.

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

A Short Introduction

What's up everyone, I am Swarvey's "Cool Cuzz". I chose this nick name because I am actually his cousin and because I think, (emphasis on "think"), I am cool. At least I can laugh at myself. Swarvey and I are the same age give or take ten days. I asked him to give me author rights because I would like to voice some things and do not want the commitment of owning my own blog. I do not have a lot of time as I am going to school full time still trying to get that ever elusive bachelor degree. I am a city mail carrier in New Haven, CT. I like working outside but management is a little totolitarian for my taste. I started reading Swarveyland and found myself hearing Swarvey's voice as I read his blog entries and found myself really enjoying myself. Considering all the other ways of killing time on the computer I count myself very fortunate to have this blog to read. Thanks, ... um er ah; Swarvey. I almost revealed your true identity. I will post again another time but let me end by saying this is the very first blog I ever posted to. I am honored and glad to be here and will be respectful and considerate of this forum.

Thanks, Cool Cuzz

why blogging is good for me...

I enjoy the process of defining thoughts and presenting them in a somewhat interesting manner. This is why I enjoy blogging, but it is not why blogging is good for me.
When I say good for me, I don't really mean on some deep emotional level. We will not be cleansing our chacras together.
Blogging is good for me, because I have a mind like a seive. I completely forget stuff that has happened to me. Stuff that you would think would stand out in someone's mind.
A recent example:
Me, Steve, Cindy and 360 were out the other night and they referenced another night when we were at a club and I was "totally checking out a transexual".
I don't remember this in the slightest. Doesn't even ring a bell and NOT because I am concerned about how it would make me look. Anyone who knows me knows I am too dumb to care about what people think. (I am coming to an age where the anti-establishment thing might be becoming slightly sad. I haven't figured out how to care, yet, though.)
Apparently I was very open in my staring. I might even have spoken to this person. I might have bought them a drink. The details are sketchy. Steve and Cindy say that I left the club with them, so there isn't even the possibility of my having had some sexual experience worthy of blocking out.
And this is just the most recent example, not the only example, so let's not make it all about the transexual, okay?
My point is this. Interesring things happen and some time later, I have no memory of them at all. So its good to have an ongoing log of stuff I can refer back to.
I think these memory lapses have to do with my ADD like functionality. I say "like" because its never been diagnosed, but I have almost no ability to focus and filter out my surroundings. I hear and see everything all the time. Which is cool if you want to make fun of a co-worker for having uneven sideburns, but not so cool when you have to, say, sleep. I need fans running to supply true white noise. True white noise has no pattern to it. Some white noise generators, at least the ones I've tried to use, are not truly random and if your brain is wired the right way (or the wrong, depending on your point of view) the repetition becomes more distracting than what the white noise was supposed to cover. You probably haven't a clue what I'm talking about.
Its not good for grocery shopping because I have to hear every horrible song they play on the Muzak system.
And its not good for studying. I made it through school because I'm reasonably intelligent, not because of all the studying I did.
Reasonably intelligent. Yeah. Read about 7/8ths of Flowers For Algernon. That's where I am. Smart enough to know I should be smarter.
But hey, I was smart enough to make a Flowers For Algernon joke, so screw you.
What does having ADD or something like it have to do with gaps in my memory? There's just not enough room in my buffer. I constantly take in everything all the time and cache needs to be flushed, I guess.
While you could say that making a cache joke points to being smart, I can take no credit. I work in a data storage program where memory concepts are pounded into our heads.
I only remember because someone brought it up yesterday. By Friday? Poof!

sorry to those who don't like long posts...

I was backing up some stuff on my hard drive when I stumbled across the below. I wrote it a couple of years ago.
It is long. Sorry.

Driver’s Retraining Class
My Experience

I had to take Driver’s Retraining Class after receiving two speeding tickets in the space of a year. I thought that was not a lot of tickets to require a drivers retraining class. I’ve explained this to some people and have received different responses from them every time.

Some people think you’re only supposed to have to take the class after three tickets and I shouldn’t have had to take it. Some people think it’s because the tickets were for excessive speed. I asked those people what excessive was, but they didn’t know.

The reality, according to the person who taught the class, is this:

There are no guidelines for who a judge or court might decide have to take the class. It’s all on a whim. These might be the only truly fair decisions; ones made completely arbitrarily.

It was held in a classroom at CCRI in Warwick. I felt kind of stupid going into a building where people were taking real classes. Bettering themselves. I was there, why? Because I was speeding to Krispy Kreme or some damned thing.

The inside of the classroom was like the inside of any classroom. Having not been in one in a long time, and never really having been in one that was full of only adults, I was curious what the atmosphere would be like.

Most of us were there about fifteen minutes prior to 6 p.m., when the class was scheduled to start. There wasn’t a lot of talking. There was the same kind of curiosity I remember feeling going into any other class, only with one difference. When you’re a kid and you’re in a class for the first time, you know who the students are, and you know who the teacher is. Kids, kids, kids… and one adult. You knew the teacher as soon as they walked in.

Here it was different. Any person who walked through the door could be the teacher, no matter how old or freaky or anything.

Crusty looking guy walks in with a long blonde goatee and long blonde hair stuffed under a knit cap woven in a rising flame pattern. Could be him. Why not? Could be.

How about the gray-mullet-headed guy with the Patriots sweatshirt, jacket, sweatpants and, probably, undergarments? Why not him?

I know people were looking at me like I could have been the teacher, and I’ve got a tattoo on my head.

It quickly becomes apparent that gray-mullet-headed guy is not the teacher. He’s the guy who, at 5:55 p.m. wonders if the class will be canceled and will we still get credit if the teacher doesn’t show up by 6:15.

He’s also the guy who cannot believe he had to miss work to attend the "frigging class". He mumbles something about lost wages and about “only a couple of DUIs”.

This gets the rest of the class talking as they all realize they have similar circumstances. These circumstances range from those that are at most mildly annoying (I’ll put my own in that category) to down-right disturbing.

Captured here are come quotes I hear floating around from these conversations.

“Spent six hours in jail…”

“I didn’t know my license had been suspended for three years…”

“Cop pulls me out of the car…”

“Not fair that the cops can be on the street without their lights on. How am I supposed to know it’s a cop?”

“100 dollar ticket…”

“300 dollar ticket…”

“750 in fines…”

“13,000 in damages…”

I find it’s kind of like showing people pictures of your kid. I find pictures of my daughter endlessly enjoying. I can look at them and relive what was going on when they were taken and feel the emotions attached and just have a great time. I know other people, after a short while, get really bored.

Suddenly, it’s like a room full of people who were showing each other pictures of their kids. The conversations quickly run their course, and no one wants to get really, really chummy with the other mopes in this class, so silence more or less takes over again.

There are a couple of guys who seem to not only have and endless supply of stories about traffic related run-ins with the law, but an endless capacity to enjoy recounting and hearing them. They hang tough and go on and on and on.

Good for them. They’re passing time better than the rest of us.

Finally, the person who is going to teach the class walks in, and I realize what I thought before about how anyone could have been the teacher, was wrong. She is an older lady, with glasses, but I think the big bag of manuals she was carrying really gives it away.

Gray-mullet-headed guy immediately asks if we will be getting out early.

“Nice.” she says. “Why is that always the first question? Why doesn’t anyone ever ask me how my day was or something? Maybe offer to get me a coffee.”

Lamely, gray-mullet-headed guy asks how her day was. She does not respond.

Someone’s cell phone rings shrilly. It is a simply horrible rendition of Breaking the Habit by Linkin Park. Man. It’s really bad. The teacher uses this as a handy segue into telling us the first rule is that all cell phones should be off.

Have you been in a room lately where 25 or so people all turn their cell phones off at the same time? Five years ago, if you heard this, you would have though Laurie Anderson was performing somewhere close by, or that aliens were attacking.

Beeps, trills, voices, samples of women moaning, and horrible, horrible music build to a crescendo, then quiet.

The teacher takes roll call. During the roll calling, she sometimes has to verify some bit of information about the person who’s name she just called. Flame-hat guy was born in ’75? Good lord. He’s taken himself down a rough damned road.

Flame-hat hears a name he thinks he recognizes and relocates himself to go sit near the name’s owner. He begins a normal, this-is-my-living-room tone of voice conversation with the other guy about possible other, other guys they might both know.

He does not notice at all that the teacher has stopped calling names and is staring at him.

This goes on for what I think was a really long time. Like 30 seconds. I feel just like I’m in high school again.

Speaking of feeling like I’m in high school, I really feel like I’m in high school because I’m being a giant dork and scribbling observations about everything that happens into a notebook. Oh well. Dork it up, I say.

Eventually, flame-hat catches on and roll call is finished. The teacher then starts the class by saying, “There are a lot of reasons why someone might take this class. People choose to take the class to lower their insurance or to make themselves safer drivers. People are also court-ordered to take this class. Looking around the room at the faces in here, I’m going to guess you were all court-ordered.”

What the hell was that? What kind of thing is that to say? Then I take a good look around the room, and decide I agree with her.

She begins talking about various topics and the conversation quickly degrades to how unfair it is that the police are able to drive however they want and never end up in a class like this.

A big pusher of this kind of talk is House-Plates guy. More on House-Plates guy later, but he is named such because his father is in government, on some level, and therefore House-Plates guy has House Plates on his car. He is confused as to why he still gets pulled over for breaking the law, even though he has House Plates on his car.

The teacher makes a valiant effort to get those in the class to realize that they are in the class for an infraction and should try their best to come out of it with something positive. It was a good try.

We get to the point in the class where we start to talk about accidents. Why they happen and what the consequences are. There are clippings from newspapers in the manual she gave us and we read along as she reads aloud, “One killed and one injured in Friday night collision”.

Apparently, someone was weaving back and forth over the dividing yellow line and caused an accident on some Friday night. She asks for possible reasons why this driver might have been weaving back and forth over the dividing yellow line.

“He was drunk” someone offers.

“He was sleepy” someone else adds.

I wanted to say, “He was receiving oral favors.”, but decided not to.

Someone else says he was maybe playing with the radio.

Then flame-hat guy says, “Maybe he was trying to commit suicide.”

The teacher looks at him levelly and says, “Come on. Let’s keep it light, okay? Now the next headline, “Car slams into bus, killing two.””

She seems to have no idea at all that what she just said was really, really funny. No one else seems to get it, either. It’s one of those moments where I find myself saying to myself, “Maybe it isn’t them. Maybe it’s me who is totally off.”

Class progresses. Flame-hat guy is quickly revealing himself to be someone who I would not at all like to go to a movie with or, in fact, be in the same theater with, ever, ever. He is the kind of guy who has no gate between his brain and his mouth. Any thought that occurs to him, comes right out of his mouth without first checking to see if it should have been allowed out.

Sometimes, the thoughts come out, and you can see, they’re lost. They don’t know where they are or what they are doing or why they were allowed out of the mouth. These thoughts could frequently be seen walking up to other students asking if they could direct them to the point they were to be associated with. I see a lot of shrugged shoulders and these thoughts all go to the same corner and sort of mill around for a while looking sheepish.

We’re in the middle of a conversation being driven mercilessly into the land of No One Gives a Ding-Dang by Flame-hat guy when House-Plates guy chimes in with something so off topic even Flame-hat guy seems taken aback.

House-Plates guy asks the teacher, “How many of these classes do you teach?”

She responds, “One a month.”

“Where does the money go?” he ponders.

“Excuse me?”

“The money we all had to pay to take this class. There’s 2750 dollars in this class right now. What does the state do with all that money?” He says this in a very authoritative tone of voice. He says this in a voice which expects the rest of the class to jump up and go, “YEAH! Good question! Just where DOES all this money go?” But no one does.

The teacher blows this off as a stupid waste of time, as she should have. What’s interesting, to me anyway, is that there are 26 people in the class and that each student pays 125 dollars for the class.

House-Plates guy does not seem to have a future in either politics or accounting.

We’re going to get two five-minute breaks instead of three ten-minute breaks and therefore get out at 9:30 instead of 10. I’m cool with this as is the rest of the class. Learning so, we go off for our first five-minute break.

Teacher admonishes us that we must all be back within five-minutes.

House-Plates guy comes back after 15 minutes. Much later than anyone else. He is totally the last person back in the class, and by a good margin. The teacher is less impressed with this than she was with his foray into the budgetary concerns of the state.

Before he gets back, though, she is wondering where he is and Flame-hat guy rats on him for leaving the building to have a smoke, although she specifically said not to do that.

I no longer feel like I’m in high school. Now I feel like I’m in third-grade. Only there’s smoking.

When he does get back she asks him if he had left the building for a cigarette. He says there is no way at all he did that and that he only went to the bathroom. As he is sitting right in front of me, it’s difficult for me to miss the rancid stink of new cigarette smoke. Maybe he has a future in politics after all.

We come to the section where we talk about seatbelts and why they should be worn. I never used to wear my seatbelt.

In 1995 I was working for a group home. Teenage runaways, drug addicts and general problem types.

One night, a girl I had worked with ran away from the program. She met up with some friends of hers, they all got blasted and drove their car into the side of a building at some ridiculous speed.

The girl was thrown from the back of the car and flew fifty feet or so into a telephone pole, head first.

Most of the kids who were in this place, most kids who are messed up, are messed up because their parents are messed up. This girl was no exception.

Her mother insisted on an open casket funeral even though they could not get the girls head back into the shape of a head.

I attended the funeral. I saw her in her casket. She wasn’t wearing her seatbelt. I’ve worn mine ever since.

We complete seatbelt section and come to our second break.

We are told we are all allowed to leave for five minutes, but that House-Plate guy has to stay behind due to his using so much time on the first break.

I need to interject here. Remember that this is an adult I am talking about and that we are talking about the loss of a five minute break Just remember.

He does not, quite, freak out. He composes himself, he actually has to compose himself, and says, “Excuse me? Excuse me, ma’am? Are you kidding? You must be kidding.”

“No.” she says, “I’m not kidding.”

“That is completely unfair. Completely unfair. I cannot believe you are doing this.”

I’m going to try to keep myself from exaggerating, but this quickly escalates. Everyone else who was going to leave the classroom stopped and watched.

He actually gets up from his desk and walks to where she is in the front of the room. It’s almost a stalk, is what it is, and I’m amazed to find I’m experiencing a rush of adrenaline like something really bad is going to happen.

He is approaching her with a definite threatening air.

She does not at all seem, well, impressed.

He is still spouting. He is attempting to throw other people under the bus for leaving the building and smoking. He points at one woman and says, “She! Her! I was not the last person who came into the room! She came back WAAAY after I did!”

“She never left the room.”, says the teacher.

“No. I never left the room.”, says this woman.

“Oh. Sorry ma’am.”, he says, bowing to the woman a little. Bowing? Did he just bow to her in the middle of this breakdown? Why, yes. He did. Funny duck, this guy.

The teacher is being cool. She says he needs to calm down and sit down or he can pick his certificate up in the office of the school in the morning instead of getting it at the end of class.

Now, I don’t even know what relevance the certificate actually has, but this infuriates House-Plate guy. Oh boy. He is over the edge now.

He goes from saying her taking his break is unfair to how she has really made a real mistake now.

I quote, directly from the guy’s mouth, “I have the power! You’ll never teach this class again!”

I have the power? Who are you? He-Man?

Someone says that he is acting like an idiot and he turns his power on them.

“What? What did you say, kid? What?”

There are going to be police here. There’s going to be a fight. I get ready for… er… I don’t know what I was getting ready for, but if it happened, I wasn’t going to be caught not being ready for it.

He grabs his coat and storms out of the room saying, “You will rue the day you ever decided to face off against me, madam! Mark my words!!”

He didn’t actually say that. I wish he had though. That would have been cool.

I realize I’m making this sound kind of silly, but it wasn’t, not really. Although nothing happened, there was a the feeling in the room that violence had just been witnessed or at the very least, barely avoided.

For the rest of the class, the teacher kept looking up every time someone passed the room we were in, as if she expected him to come back in with more barbs, or worse.

He didn’t, though.

There’s no real satisfying end to this story. We finished the class. When I walked out to the parking lot, he wasn’t there waiting or anything. A lot of other people who were in the class sped out of the parking lot and one guy ran a red light.

2750 dollars well spent.

my accidental bigotry...

I have a weird bad habit that presents itself once in a while. Before I describe the bad habit, I will make an apology and excuse for it.
I am sorry it happens, and I don't mean anything by it when it does. It just happens.
I guess those are not sufficient for either an apology or an excuse. Ah well.
When I am interacting with not-100% English speaking people, I sometimes use language or phrases that, to someone who didn't know what a hell of a nice guy I am, could be taken as offensive. I don't mean them to be.
Today at lunch was a good example. I was eating at a Mexican restaurant. When the meal was over, the waiter came back to get the plates. I jokingly said, "Hot plate! Hot plate!" to the waiter as he had said when he served the food.
He laughed and said he was used to it. He showed us all a place on his arm where he had burned himself with a fajitas tray.
Now, those trays are really hot. It looked like it must have really hurt.
In a very supportive manner, I said "Ay, ay, aayyy!"
I've never claimed social brilliance.
Another example:
In my job, I frequently work directly with those from outside US. I was once working with a person from Asia. We had completed the somewhat formal conversation we needed to have and had moved into a more relaxed interchange.
We were discussing his smoking habit and how bad it was for his health. He asked if I had ever smoked.
I said, "Me? Oh no. No drinkee, no smokee."
There are other examples of how I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but that's enough self-flagellation for now.
Besides, I have to tell the Spanish janitor to make my garbage go bye-bye.

Monday, August 6, 2007

on the way south this morning...

On the way to dropping my daughter off this morning, we ended up driving parallel to a large green truck, with many car-sized individual compartments on its bed. Each of the compartments, the entire truck in fact, was covered with signs reading:


I wanted to grab my phone and take a picture of the truck, you know, for the blog.
Then it occurred to me that as I was driving next to a truck full of explosives, maybe I should pay attention to the road.

Saturday, August 4, 2007

more readers...

I want more people to read my blog and have been unclear as to how to make it happen. I looked on the internet for advice. The advice I found most often was along the lines of, "Post to your blog every day. Think of it like you are watering a plant. You water a plant every day to make it grow, post to your blog every day to make it grow!"
There are a couple of things wrong with this thinking.
First off, many plants do not require watering every day. In fact, you will kill many types of plants by hydrating them so.
Secondly, let us assume all plants require watering everyday. If you have no water, should you substitute another liquid? Whatever you have lying around? Milk? Coca-Cola Zero?
I ask this question because I tend to only post when things occur to me that I find clever or interesting in some way. And I am perfectly willing to accept that some of these things are ONLY clever and/or interesting to ME. I'm fine with that.
If I were to adhere to the Post Every Day rule, many of the posts would appear like the one below:

My daughter and I went to the Seafood Festival in Charlestown, Rhode Island.
It was very hot.
We had hamburgers that were not good, but I guess that's what we get for ordering hamburgers at a seafood festival.
We saw a cannon.
Here is the cannon.
Hay Cannon
It was an old cannon so my daughter was probably in very little danger from staring down the barrel like that.

Thursday, August 2, 2007

my head...

I've tried to explain to people what happens to my head sometimes. I will try to describe it to you know.
Sometimes I feel like there is a woodchuck trapped in my skull, and that the woodchuck is not happy with being trapped in my skull and is trying to claw and chew its way out.
In April, I was in the Emergency room at 1am on a Sunday night. I was sweating, vomiting, disoriented and sweating. I was very sweating.
I've had migraines once in a while in my life, but their frequency and ferociousness is increasing. It's become worrying.
As it has been a very long time since I've been to the dentist, it began to occur to Jenn and I that maybe my teeth had something to do with it. They may not be the whole reason, but they certainly could not be helping.
There's been like a perfect storm of me going to the dentist forming around me. My teeth hurt, my headaches are increasing, and Jenn told me she wouldn't marry me unless I went.
So, I was going to go anyway. But now I can say I had to decide for my health and well being, that it wasn't only because Jenn told me I had to.
I have control.
I have some say.
Yes I do.
I went the the dentist today.

happy dentist
Look at this ceramic dentist trying to lull me into a sense of well being.
I know better than that.
You can't pull one over on me, ceramic dentist!

X-Ray thing
The nice dental hygienist told me she just needed to shove this in my face to take an X-Ray. I believe this entire contraption was in my mouth.

The dentist guy showed up after a while to inform me that he wasn't quite sure what the problem was, and that is always confidence inspiring. He said that the small X-Rays, taken with the big yellow thing shoved in my face, were not big enough for him to see everything he needed to see.
He asked me to follow him into another room.
I thought, is the other thing they want to shove into my face so big it needs its own room?
No. I was being silly. It was a panoramic X-Ray machine and very little of it had to be shoved into my face, which was great because I'm not a fan of such things.
However, this new machine required that I simultaneously hold a small stick between my teeth, keep my head "perfectly" still, (Saying perfectly still adds a lot of pressure and actually makes staying still much harder. Just some advice for if you ever need to ask someone to stay still.) keep my tongue on the roof of my mouth, stay a little bit on my tip toes and hold a quarter between my butt cheeks while a death ray revolved around my head.
I am not exaggerating.

When the results were in, the dentist guy said, "Haha! Wooo! You want to take a look at this?"
No. The dentist says, "Haha! Wooo!", and I am not at all interested.

Here's what he saw:
sideways tooth1
sideways tooth2
sideways tooth3

I realize these pictures look like they could be of the Loch Ness monster, so I will illustrate another way.
sideways mickey
See Micky Dolenz' head? It's going in the wrong direction and pushing on Peter Tork's head. It's subtle, I know. I hope you can see it.
Anyway, that's what my molars are doing. Growing in the wrong direction and pushing on Peter Tork's head. Any idiot can see this is why I've been getting migraines.

the way women confound me...

One of my first posts here was about Jenn and her job and the reality of her job and how I could never do her job. It was a very supportive post and I felt good about myself for posting it.
Jenn, however, was slightly miffed and concerned that someone at her job would stumble across my post and nail her for impropriety.
While I did not respect her thoughts enough to remove the posts, I did respect them enough to not post further on the subject.
This week, Jenn informed me that she pointed a co-worker here so they could read about the death cat.
And the confounding commenced.