Blogonoscopy

Pilates With A Pee

2009-11-08T17:09:00.004-05:00

Friday night I did something that made me feel a little bit uncomfortable.

Friday night I went to a Pilates studio.

It was strictly for the purposes of trying to find something, anything, that might make me well again, and I didn't wear a leotard or a tutu or those special grippy socks with the toes cut off, but I still had a hard time shaking the feeling that I was doing something very wrong just by being there.

The session itself made me feel even more uncomfortable.

I'm admittedly a bit oversensitive about my physical condition these days, but 50 minutes of straining and sweating and gasping at dumbed-down versions of what so many soccer moms and schoolgirl ballerinas were prancing their way through all around me didn't do much for my self esteem.

To be sure, it was a wonderful thing to have a new kind of therapy to try. To be surer, I've never been overly concerned about getting too in touch with my feminine side. Still, something about going to a Pilates studio, voluntarily and unrelated to any romantic endeavors, and gaining nothing but a polite, perfectly-postured beatdown, was too much for me to take.

I had to do something manly. Something really manly.

So, on the drive home from the studio, I did what really manly men do when they're driving and they have to pee but they're simply too manly to stop and find a restroom.

I peed in a bottle. While talking on the phone and changing lanes.

And this made me feel most uncomfortable of all.

Because, you see, as so often happens in the undertaking of really manly activities, things went horribly wrong and the bottle spilled all over my lap.

I won't go into the horrifying details, or at least I won't go any further into them, but suffice it to say that my masculine self-worth was most definitely not restored. Sore, shamed, frustrated, I turned to the only option I had left to salvage the evening and regain some measure of dignity.

I bought myself a pair of those amazing socks.

Halloween Q&A

2009-11-02T15:22:00.005-05:00

Is Halloween my favorite holiday?
Yes.

Is it my favorite day of the year?
Yes.

Do I love it like a fat kid love cake?
Yes.

Do I love it like rappers love lame analogies?
Yes.

Do I feel ashamed that, despite this perhaps-slightly-maniacal passion, I didn't carve a single-, triple-. or nonuple-pumpkin jack o'lantern this year?
Yes.

Do I feel less ashamed because it was only due to the continued destruction of all I hold dear by The World's Most Annoying Injury?
Yes.

Do I feel ashamed that I didn't dress up like a scary scarecrow, sit on the porch like a decoration, then suddenly spring to life and frighten the sugar out of all of the little trick-or-treaters who showed up at my parents' house?
Yes.

Do I feel less ashamed because this was also only due to TWMAI? Well, and to the fact that my mom would have undoubtedly called the police on me?
Yes.

Do I feel ashamed that my first inclination upon seeing the sign pictured below was that the ghost was in search of other ghosts with prominent backsides?
No.

And that the thing he was holding--because it would have had to have been a "he," right?--was some spectral variation of Mardi Gras beads targeted to his preferred body part?
Also no.

Happy Halloween?
Yes.

Platanolapiz

2009-10-29T23:32:00.004-04:00

Perhaps you think that bananas are only good for eating or splitting or throwing, mushy-boomerang-style, at unsuspecting enemies.

Perhaps, like me, you had no idea that bananas could also be good for art. Not quite hanging-in-a-gallery art, maybe, but definitely showing-off-to-your-little-sister art. And that's still pretty impressive, isn't it? According to my little sister, it sure is.

My actually-talented actual artist of an aunt is the one who informed me about this wonderful possibility. If she hadn't, I might've gone the rest of my life without having any idea of what I'd been missing, despite some previous experience with unorthodox fruit carving.

But she did inform me, and I didn't miss it, and these two facts--in combination with my lack of anything more interesting to write about--mean that if you can tolerate prolonged inhalation of banana peel fumes, you too can broaden your horizons and your bragging opportunities.

All you do is scrape the top layer of the peel with a sharp object, wait a few minutes, and voila, presto change-o, etc., etc.

Art.

First, though, a few recommendations, compiled through the eagle eyes of hindsight:

1. Do not use a serrated kitchen knife. I don't know if there's such a thing as a banana carving knife, or why the lousy local craft store hung up on me when I called to discuss, but I have to think if I were slightly less impatient, and slightly more mobile, I'd have found something a whole lot more precise to use.

2. Do not use the same amount of force that you might use to peel a potato or carve a scrimshaw. You're giving the banana a tattoo, not a peelectomy.

3. Do not shout swears at your banana when your best efforts to carve a straight line are thwarted by its slippery roundness. It's not the banana's fault that it's not a museum-quality canvas. Also, it can't hear you.

4. Do not expect other people to be as rapturously delighted with your handiwork as you are. Expect something more along the lines of "you better be eating that poor thing after you're finished with it" or "Is the internet connection out again?"

Okay, I think that's it. Work hard, keep those suggestions in mind, and remember that if Plan A for Art doesn't turn out the way you hoped, and the wicked critic philistines mock your efforts, there's always Plan B.

B for Boomerang.

**Special thanks to Creek Johnson Photography**

Contest Winner (Loser?)

2009-10-22T19:44:00.007-04:00

Dear Everybody,

Thanks for guessing. And also for making me feel a little less alone in having viewed that frothy deathbeast.

The winner of the $5 (and all of the disturbing personal questions that come with it) is Roscoe Jenkins. Her Holiday Card will be stuffed accordingly.

The picture is indeed from the 1980's television series "V," a show that I randomly began watching a couple of weeks ago, brilliantly determined would be a perfect candidate for a remake, and then saw an ad for, you guessed it, ABC's remake.

For those of you wondering--and really, how could you not be?--the creature in the picture is the offspring of one of the lizardlike alien invaders and a whiny, man-haircutted Earthling named Robin. It was actually one of a set of twins, who, as should be apparent from the photo below, were clearly fraternal.

When the demon baby was extracted (everything was done via C-section, as alien-human hybrid deliveries invariably are), I started laughing. When its little brother climbed out--yes, the doctors panicked and it delivered itself--I almost had a hernia.

I can't tell if it looks more like a tiny green Krang or a tiny evil (live-action) Ninja Turtle.

Creepiness, Creaminess, Contestiness, Cashiness

2009-10-19T13:54:00.007-04:00

Posted below is an image that is simultaneously all of the following things: (i) disgusting, (ii) horrible, (iii) terrifying, (iv) hilarious, and (v) Shamrock Shake-y.

If you are easily grossed out or frightened, or if you want to retain your ability to consume mint-colored foods, you should probably stop reading right now. Go fly a kite, or a weather balloon, or, to quote pre-insane Tom Cruise from A Few Good Men, go "do whatever it is you do when you're not here."

Now, on the other hand, if you read that list of adjectives with a growing sense of wonderment as to how I'd managed to isolate so precisely the deepest fascinations of your mind, I have good news for you. Well, I actually have good and bad news, but there are three pieces of good and only one of bad. Wait. Is that statement itself another piece of good news? Does that mean there are actually four pieces of good news? Wait again. Wouldn't that statement be additional good news in itself, meaning there are actually five pieces now?

I think I'll probably stop right there before I break one of the few remaining parts of my brain that aren't broken already.

Back to the news. The bad: If you like the sound of whatever's being described by those adjectives, you're almost certainly deranged. I'm sorry, but there's really no arguing it. The good news, though: Part 1 - You will be able to see said image in a moment, free of charge; Part 2 - The first person to leave a comment successfully identifying the origin of said image came will receive a $5 bill in his or her Holiday Card this year; Part 3 - Yes, the Holiday Cards are coming. Stay tuned.

Are you ready for the image now?

You will never be ready for the image.

Here it is:

Good luck, and may the best weirdo win.

Hey! Guys! The Recession's Over!

2009-10-16T18:01:00.006-04:00

Oh, wait. Never mind.

So, Basically, Nothing Happened

2009-10-16T01:01:00.000-04:00

I'm extremely proud to say that I didn't read a single "article" about this idiotic "Balloon Boy" "story" all day. I'm also extremely proud at how dexterously I wield snarky quotation marks.

Back to the Balloon Boy thing, though. Is there a better example of the imbecilic depths to which mainstream American media has sunk than a story about a 6-Year Old Boy Who ~~Took Off In a Hot Air Balloon!~~ ~~Fell Out Of A Hot Air Balloon!~~ ~~Isn't In The Balloon But Is Still Missing!~~ ~~May Be Spearheading An Al Qaeda Hot Air Balloon Attack!~~ Never Left His House? Almost certainly yes, but this is still pretty bad.

Perhaps you're thinking, "How do you know so much about the 'story' (thanks for the quotes setup) if you didn't read anything about it?" Perhaps no one cares what you're thinking.

What I'm thinking, though, is the following list of questions, which are and shall remain rhetorical in the truest sense of the word. And I just looked it up, too, so don't try to get fresh with me about it.

I don't want any answers. Because I truly don't care. I just can't help but ask:

1. What the Child Services was this wacko family doing with an unsecured, homemade hot air balloon?
2. How the TMZ did this go from "our kid has been missing for a half-hour" to "a Nation Riveted" so lightning fast?
3. What the smoking cigarettes was that little punk doing hiding up in the attic, anyway?
4. Why the CNN can't we put each of the authors of the 3,339 "news articles" on their own DIY balloons and float them into oblivion?
5. Why the whiny hypocrisy did I just spend fifteen minutes of my life on this?

Wherein I Remove All Doubt

2009-10-08T22:45:00.007-04:00

As someone who possesses five working senses and nearly average intelligence, I notice a lot of curious things happening in the world.

As someone who possesses a healthy distaste for looking like a jackass, I do my best to laugh at the funny curious things and shake my head condescendingly at the offensive ones.

The problem is, sometimes I can't tell which is which.

This album cover*, for instance. Is it fair game to look at it and be amused by the combination of the artist's name and the photo's, shall we say, "unorthodox" orientation? Or is it rude and juvenile and tasteless and should I be embarrassed for even asking?

Don't answer that.

The reason I bring any of this up is that I saw something today that was so curious that I feel compelled to share it. I just don't want to offend anyone or look like an insensitive jackass. Especially the jackass part.

Is what I saw funny? No. It's not. Definitely not like my new favorite Rock/Pop artist's album cover. Is it offensive? I worry that it might be, even with all of the qualifiers I'm attempting to set up in advance. I guess I'll just assume that most people have already reached a verdict on the jackass question as it applies to me, and I'll take some solace in the protection afforded by the doctrine of double jeopardy.

It was this morning that I saw what I saw.

I was exiting the local JCC (Jewish Community Center), where, I'm delighted to say, I've once again returned to regular engagement in That Activity Which I Already Jinxed Once Before And Will Not Be So Foolish As To Do So Again By Direct Reference To Or Celebration Thereof.

What I saw was right in front of the building when I saw it, parked in the fire lane. I was so tired from almost forty-five minutes of almost drowning that I almost missed it anyway.

Here it is:

I'd actually passed it before I'd fully processed what it said. I walked back for a closer look and, naturally, a closer photo.

Adolph Sufrin Office Products.

Adolph.

Sufrin.

Office Products.

Parked outside of a Jewish Community Center.

Hopefully you now appreciate the difficulty that I faced in deciding whether or not to post this. And the difficulty I now face as I try to decide whether or not to discuss it any further.

I think I'll just begin and end by saying that there has to be some other "Office Products" company somewhere within the state of Pennsylvania and that whoever at the JCC chose this one instead should be fired immediately. Or at least forced to listen to the latest Jay Reatard album.

Have I offended you? Do you think I'm a jackass?

Please don't answer that.

*In the interest of full disclosure, a cursory Amazon search seems to indicate that the picture is intended to be oriented normally, and that eMusic's album page just screwed it up. This obviously doesn't resolve the original question; it just re-frames it slightly.

Sometimes I Help Out Other Websites

2009-09-23T14:22:00.003-04:00

(Link)

LOL I ♥ UR HOUSE

2009-09-23T00:05:00.004-04:00

Dear Ms. Bassichis,

I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but with a first name like yours, I'm sure you won't be down for long.

Ready? Okay. Here it is:

No one who has enough money to buy a house communicates via text message.

Perhaps you were thinking of NBA players or big time rappers or Miley Cyrus. Fair enough, but as you should be well aware, we don't have any of those in Pittsburgh.

If it was just a matter of trying to stand out from the thousands of other "For Sale" signs out there, I have a much better idea for you:

A giant, 20' x 20' cutout of your head, on top of a neon sign that reads "Building a time machine to send myself back to the '80s. Buy this house and help me get there."

Like it? I thought you might. If you have any questions, or need any help with assembling it all, hit me up on MySpace.

Your Pal,
Dan

Google Relationships, or, Cause and Effect

2009-09-17T17:55:00.007-04:00

Please excuse the shakiness of the arrows. I was so excited at finally understanding America that I was having a hard time keeping the mouse steady.

Protected

2009-09-16T21:38:00.003-04:00

No matter how many times I look at it, the wording still just doesn't seem right.

Is the sign a misprint? Am I dyslexic? Is that even a socially acceptable thing to joke about?

I first saw it a couple of weeks ago, as I was taking a short walk around my parents' neighborhood. It was no more than five minutes after I'd passed the little boy, who, after sizing me up with a combination of fear and wonderment, exclaimed to his mother, "That guy looks like a cowboy!"

If I hadn't been so startled -- and delighted -- I'd like to think I'd have turned and shouted, "Howdy, Pardner!" at the little guy, pretended to fire off a couple of six-shooters, and tipped my imaginary ten-gallon hat. As it was, it was all I could do to stifle my decidedly-uncowboyish laughter and wave.

A few hundred yards later, as I was still kicking myself for not having responded in a more Wild Westernly fashion, I spotted it.

I guess I didn't really "spot" it as much as I "noticed" it. But even that probably implies a little too much consciousness of thought. Basically, I glanced at it while I was walking up a hill, which, in my current condition, is something I do about as slowly as the synapses fire in Kanye West's brain. With so much time to read it, ponder it, re-read it, and re-ponder it, I guess it's not much of a surprise that I convinced myself that something didn't quite add up.

At first, I'd figured that I'd just never taken the time to actually read one of these things, and that they all say what this one does. But they don't. They're everywhere, at least in the suburbs they are, and I've been paying much closer attention than I -- or any sane person -- otherwise might, but I still haven't found another that says the same thing.

Maybe you've seen one that does. Maybe you have one that does. Maybe I hate you.

Because, at least to me, the way this reads is ridiculous.* It's almost Orwellian.

"We have installed a system that will electroshock you in the throat if you cross an invisible line. "

Why?

"So you will be protected.

Hmm. From what?

*Zap!*

Also, henceforth, your name shall be written only in all capitals.

Um...why?

*Double Zap!*

Because it looks extra-protecty that way.

*For the record, yes, I suppose it's technically true that an Invisible Fence can "protect" a dog from vehicles, other dogs not within the electrified perimeter, and mailmen with pepper spray and/or bazookas. I will also readily acknowledge that I much prefer to be growled at by a dog in an IF yard than by one that's eating my arm off. Still, I'd like to think that reasonable people can agree that these things can be lumped in with spaying and neutering as Something That May Be Technically Best For Pets But Is Sort Of Insulting If It's Presented As A Nice Thing To Do For Them.

All Aboard!

2009-09-10T14:41:00.009-04:00

This is my new car. I ~~spotted~~ bought it earlier this afternoon.

I'm pretty sure that owning it means that I won't need game tickets anymore, that all I'll need to do is pull it up to the VIP entrance, toss the keys to Brian Billick (he's a Steelers parking lot attendant now), high five Mike T., and take the express elevator to my complementary seats at the 50 yard line.

As soon as I'm able to comfortably sit upright, I'll put this to the test.

In the meantime, I'll leave you with the 2009-2010 season's first round of predictions:

Yours Truly: Steelers, 17-6

The Butler - Steelers, 24-7

Paddyboy - Titans, 75-4 (he had just awakened from a 4-hour nap, so maybe was a little groggy, and he has a strange--some would say "disturbed"-- sense of humor, so maybe he was joking; either way, he was reported to James Harrison, who doesn't much care for bad jokes)

The Big Three-Oh

2009-09-08T22:23:00.000-04:00

Some years ago, long before I'd come to learn that honesty and foolishness are but two different terms for the same character defect, I remarked to my mom that I considered her relationship with my dad to be "The Eighth Wonder of the World."

To put it more precisely--and a good deal less tritely--I was, and remain, perpetually astonished that their relationship ever extended past "Hi, I'm Pat" and "That's nice." Yes, Big Slow has the tenacity of a rabid bulldog, and yes, Mrs. Slow has the patience of a prayer book full of saints, but it still defies comprehension. I've never encountered a more incredibly dissimilar pairing--of any kind--in my life.

If you were to graph their interests as a Venn diagram, the result would be two single circles, each on a separate piece of paper, and each piece of paper as far away from the other as geographically possible. It's cats and dogs. Oil and water. Cowboys and Indians.

But it works.

Miraculously, marvelously, wonderfully, it works.

Way back when, I was amazed by it. I made my famous declaration to my mom, she shared it with my dad, he shared it with half the planet, everybody had a laugh, and that was that.

Now, today, after 30 years of mindbending success, I'm not sure that words--or diagrams--can do it justice.

Giant "8th Wonder" photo magnets, on every fridge and car at the house? It's a start.

Happy 30th Anniversary, Slow and Mrs. Slow! Here's to another 88 years of blowing everyone's minds!

The Coronation

2009-09-03T18:04:00.016-04:00

My youngest sister likes the Internet. And when I say "the Internet," I mean "Facebook." And when I say "likes," I mean "cannot live without."

The only thing, really, that's been holding her back from slaying Mark Zuckerberg and assuming her rightful place as ruler of his - her - company, has been the family computer.

It's not terrible. I don't want to overstate the case. It doesn't have a mini-fridge-monitor with a Game Gear screen. It doesn't sound like a microwave when you turn it on. It doesn't erase random files every few weeks or so, just for kicks. That was the old family computer.

The current one is just blah. It's a three-year-old Dell that's kinda clunky and kinda slow and kinda ugly. It gets the job done, if the job is sending an email or typing a paper or playing solitaire.

It does not - repeat, does not - get the job done, however, if the job is chatting with eighteen people at the same time while examining several hundred photos from last week's "Tacky Tea Party" while pretending not to be scoping out potential homecoming dates while dispensing an impossibly frenetic stream of posts and tags and pokes and shares and status updates.

A few days ago, I finally grasped the injustice of the situation.

No one would ask Usain Bolt to race in a pair of hand-me-down work boots. Or Alicia Keys to play a concert with a garage sale keyboard. Luminous talents deserve illuminating equipment.

I placed a call to the Butler, who's been operating as a sort of estate administrator / short-term storage manager the last several months, as all of my earthy possessions are currently stashed at his place in Minnesota.

With my own personal computing needs more than met, and with my dear, dear friend thus surplus to requirements, the resolution seemed clear enough.

It arrived via UPS this morning, and the transplant was made early this afternoon, while the little prodigy was still loathing her way through the school day. When she finally returned home, and caught a glimpse of its giant, glossy magnificence, and mentally calculated how many (dozens) of chat windows it would fit, in parallel, at the same time, she fainted dead away.

In the fifteen minutes that passed before her glorious visions of the future jolted her back to consciousness, I was able to frantically create and apply the following (tiled) desktop background.

The King is dead. Long live the Queen.

Well, This Was Certainly Bound To Happen

2009-08-31T15:45:00.013-04:00

Of course I know. Everybody knows.

Until they're over, and I mean take-it-to-the-bank, the-one-guarded-by-a-hundred-clones-of-Andre-the-Giant over, you never discuss no-hitters, great first dates, or miraculous recoveries from long-term injuries.

As soon as you do, it happens. Without fail. A bloop double and a home run, eight pet cats and a still-best-friend-ex, or a painful, stop-everything flare-up.

While I lie back down on my couch, and desperately try to figure out who I can possibly blame other than myself, I am at least consoled by one thing. After having watched this video at least 50 times already, should I ever have another chance in the pool, I will be the best flip-turner around.

Other than any members of the JCC Tidal Waves Swim Club.

And those stupid high school girls.

If Moses Hadn't Split the Sea (and Had a Little More Fashion Sense)

2009-08-26T21:18:00.009-04:00

As I write this, I smell like a combination of old man cologne, shower dispenser hand soap, and little kid pee.

Yes, I just got back from the pool.

The pool.

Where I just finished swimming for the 17th time in 19 days since my most recent back appointment.

Where my most recent doctor - and my new best friend - wrote me a prescription for a super-anti-inflammatory and instructed me to "gradually return to strengthening, starting in the pool."

Yes sir!

Boy howdy!

I'd have written about this joyous, oh-so-joyous news much earlier, like with my phone in the elevator ninety seconds after I'd met with the doctor, but I've been so disappointed so many times before in this dreadful saga that I wanted to wait and see how it went first.

I've now waited and seen. I'd tried swimming several times before, of course, especially when things had first started getting bad - overdramatic gasp - almost eleven months ago. It had sucked. Every time. This time, though, whether because of the meds, or because of all the time that's passed, or simply because my back decided it's about f*cking time to get better, it's been okay.

I certainly don't feel good or well yet - not by any means. For starters, I just got my ass kicked by the two high school girls in the lap lanes next to mine, the ones I was racing without telling them about it. Even more, I've gone such an insanely long time without any meaningful activity that I know it's going to be a good while until I really start to feel like my old self again. Dr. Best Friend said he figures 3 to 5 months; I figure whatever he figures because I love that guy.

Still, whatever the qualifiers, it's almost inexpressibly delightful to be doing something active again, to feel like I might actually be healthy again sometime this decade, to be worrying a little less that I'm going to Costanza the rest of my life away on my wonderful parents' couch.

Boy howdy again!

Best of all, between the closest - and best - lap lanes being at the local Jewish Community Center, my convalescent beard being as absurdly prominent as ever, and this swimsuit* - I use the term loosely - being what I wear - I use this term loosely as well - to the pool, I've been getting the most wonderfully broad range of stares each time I get my swim on.

Some people seem to take me for a young rabbi, and look like they want to introduce me to their nieces or daughters. Some people seem to take me for a stripper, and look like they want to call the police. Some people seem to take me for one of the GEICO cavemen***, and look like they want to get a better deal on their car insurance.

All of these responses, of course, are perfectly acceptable to me. I'm swimming!

*If you think I'm joking about this suit**, you don't know me as well as you think you do.

**If you think it looks scandalous, it's at least twice as skimpy in real life.

***This is simply a joke, and a beard one at that. I do not have back or arm or any other kind of body hair like the GEICO cavemen thankyouverymuch.

A Real Hail Mary

2009-08-16T20:44:00.016-04:00

"That was one booby Jesus," I remarked to myself, as I wound along the thickly wooded road on my way to pick my little sister up from the pool.

I heard what I said, of course, but I'd gotten caught up in the bright leafy air and the stately oaks whizzing past, and I wasn't really paying myself as much attention as I otherwise might've been. It wasn't until I'd gone another half-mile or so that what I'd seen - and said - had truly hit me.

I stomped on the brakes and pulled into a grade school parking lot. Had I really just driven past a church with two large pictures of Jesus with boobs?

It seemed impossible, but, despite my slightly delayed reaction, I was certain of what I'd seen. It had been the classic, transfixed figure - arms outstretched, eyes gazing heavenward, head crowned with rays of radiating glory.

And, well, the boobs. And not just any boobs, either. A man may be distracted, he may not be paying his usual close attention to his surroundings or to himself, but there are certain things in the world that cannot possibly escape him. At the head of this list, obviously, are perfect boobs.

Jesus, in this church's marquis and side sign, at least, had had them. Was it some obscure denomination that believed Jesus had been a woman? Were they trying to break down the classic, patriarchal stereotypes? Did they believe in topless worship? Obviously, and from a strictly theological perspective, an immediate investigation was in order.

I turned out of the parking lot and headed back the way I'd came. I hadn't seen a speed limit sign in a while, so I presumed it was about 65. I was back at the church in thirty seconds. There it was. Again. The modern, glass-and-steel building, the big sign, the little sign. The boobs. So what was this wondertemple called?

I turned into its crowded parking lot and squinted in the bright sunshine.

Wait.

What?

The actual name of the Church of The Holy Chest was almost impossibly disappointing, on both a spiritual and a carnal level:

"Radiance: A Private Outpatient Surgery Center"

I said a couple of decidedly unholy words and, for the second time in a few short minutes, turned out of a parking lot to reverse my course. At least I'd been right about the boobs. Perfect.

Man's Best Friend Wears Diapers**

2009-08-09T20:08:00.024-04:00

So apparently dogs are as smart at 2-year-old children.

While I'm not much surprised by this discovery - that seems the standard age bracket for creatures that respond to simple verbal stimuli, take multiple naps a day, and poop wherever they want - I am surprised by how most news sources seem to be treating it as an affirmation of canine intelligence.

Why? Well, I'm not sure it's possible to phrase this delicately enough to avoid sounding like a jerk, so I guess I'll just go ahead and say it:

2-year-old children are not smart.

At all.

They're cute, and funny, and fun, but they are not smart.

Just off the top of my head, here's a list of things that I would not be comfortable having a 2-year-old child do for me:

1. Be my best friend
2. Guard my house
3. Bring my newspaper in from the driveway
4. Pull my sled
5. Herd my cattle

Dogs, of course, are asked to do these things all the time.

So what's going on here? Should dogs be offended that we're impressed that they're this dumb? Should toddlers be offended that they aren't given more household responsibilities? Should ToddlerDog be offended that this picture will follow him around for the rest of his life?

I think probably yes to all three. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to ~~beat~~ play my two-year-old cousin in chess.

**Disclaimer: I very much like dogs, toddlers, naps, and freestyle pooping, and nothing in this post should be interpreted to indicate otherwise

The Inflate-O-Mace

2009-07-26T14:28:00.032-04:00

Dear Everybody,

I apologize for having been mostly MIA the last few weeks, and I thank those of you who expressed concern as to whether I'd fallen off my couch and died. As you've no doubt surmised from the existence of this post, I hadn't.

There are a couple* of recent developments** that have been taking up a great deal of my time lately, and there's also been a possible breakthrough in the The Hardy Boys and the Case of the Rotten Spine,*** all of which I hope to be able to elaborate upon soon. For now, though, I feel like the most pressing issue is the publication of the following series of photographs. It depicts the latest amazing gift sent to me by my dear, brilliantly-shod friend, who, by now, is unquestionably The World's Greatest Overgifter.

There are two things to note in advance of the unveiling, however. Number one, some of these pictures depict extremely graphic violence and may not be suitable for all viewers. Number two, the reason that I look like a sweaty clown is that (a) I'd arrived at the photo shoot straight from a (tick-free!) wilderness hike, and (b) I look like a clown.

Okay, I think that's it. Please enjoy (or be horrified) responsibly and thanks again for the concern.

Talk to you soon, I hope,

J.D.

--------------------------

This, I believe, is the intended use for what, I believe, is officially - and almost unthinkably blandly - called "The Massage Ball."

I think a more accurate name might be something like "The Spherical Iron Maiden."

As you probably imagined, it has both single- and multi-player settings:

As you probably didn't imagine, a broomstick and a bit of ribbon turn it into the world's largest and deadliest mace.

I'd like to say that this action shot didn't require about 15 takes, and I'd like to say that my lovely assistant didn't beat me up immediately afterwards, but, then again, I'd like a lot of things.

Speaking of which, I'd like to stop here, before you're all scarred for life and I'm added to the CIA's terrorist watch list.

Thanks again to The W.G.O. for such a wonderfully dangerous gift, and thanks for the first time to my assistant for her usual good humor and to Paddyboy for his stellar photography.

PS - Generally speaking, I hate at least 90% of photos taken of me. Ever since I turned into an anorexic Al-Qaeda operative, though, I feel like that percentage has dropped down to about 70%. Silver linings. Everywhere.

*I spent roughly $8 million dollars on the full Rosetta Stone Mandarin program (China may be taking over the world, but I'm taking over China), and I've been making sure to get (some of) my money's worth.

**I am, finally and extremely self-consciously, attempting to write a collection of longer essays that, if it ever amounts to anything, would be called a "book," and if it doesn't, would be called a "self-indulgent diary."

***I won't know anything for sure until August 7th at the earliest.

A Question From The Junior Senator (I) From His Parents' Couch

2009-07-14T15:27:00.009-04:00

I really, really hope the answer isn't "Because she just had a stroke," but why is Judge Sotomayor talking like she just had a stroke?

What Goes Around

2009-07-07T15:01:00.034-04:00

I walked into the overflowing radiology waiting room, rubbing my hands with gel sanitizer for at least the fifth time since arriving at the hospital. I'm not a germaphobe, I swear, it's just that those little wall dispensers are everywhere and the constant stream of coughing, bleeding people wheeling past has a way of making a quick scrub always seem like a good idea.

While the door swung slowly shut behind me, my eyes darted around the room in search of a precious empty seat. As much as my screaming back wanted me to sit! sit anywhere! sit on someone's lap!, I forced myself to be a bit more cautious.

I immediately ruled out a few available spaces -- next to the woman in the burqa on the one-and-a-half person love seat (I'm sure she wouldn't have minded, I just felt almost offensively male at the thought of it); amidst the loudmouthed gaggle of retirees bragging to each other about their texting abilities (no explanation needed, I hope); in between two children who appeared to have very recently been very sick all over their T-shirts (likewise).

Finally, mercifully, I spotted an open chair in the far corner next to an overgrown-looking fake plant. I gingerly eased myself into the seat and looked around for the nearest sanitizer dispenser, feeling about due for a refresher. Not seeing one - how was this possible? - I tried to keep from staring at the Vomit Twins and leafed through the tattered pages of a June 2005 Newsweek.

This Newsweek, an even more ancient People magazine, and a "Say No To Tobacco" pamphlet later, I finally got called in and had my X-ray and CT scans performed. On my way out, I asked if I could get a couple of copies of the images from the scans (one to send to my doctor uncle, and one to add to my open-in-case-of-Lyme-disease medical file).

The middle-aged nurse - "Tami," I think - who I'd charmed earlier by referring to the preposterous outfit the orderly had instructed me to change into - underwear, flip-flops, and two hospital gowns, one forward, one backward ("so nobody sees your underwear") - as my "Jesus costume" (picture the entire ensemble, and add in a 4-month beard), was more than happy to oblige. She said she'd call ahead to the Film Library on the first floor, and that everything would be ready when I showed up.

Well, I don't want to blame someone as kind and comedically-discerning as Tami, but something definitely got crossed up somewhere between the 8th and 1st floors. I showed up at the Film Library just like I was supposed to, but no one was expecting my arrival, and nothing was ready. The attendant (librarian?), a pouty, slothlike specimen named Beth, stared at me through her locked office door with the enthusiasm of someone about to have her toenails ripped out.

When it became painfully apparent that, yes, I was there to see her, and no, I wasn't conversant in her personal dialect of American Sign Language, she sighed, shuffled over to the door, unlocked it, and opened it narrowly enough that I wouldn't feel invited to step inside. I apologized for the inconvenience and explained my request as politely as possible.

"Two copies?" she asked, looking at me like I'd asked her to do a backflip off the top of her desk. "Two copies?" she asked again, wielding her repetition like a mighty whiny sword against the perceived outrageousness of my request. "We'll have to charge you for the second one and it'll take a while, 30 or 40 minutes at least," she said.

For a brief moment, I felt a nearly overpowering urge to headbutt her in the brain. I'm not a violent person - to recap: not a germaphobe and not violent - but a relatively sane soul can only take so much.

Here I was, a patient in a hospital, asking a staff member to do, oh I don't know, exactly what her employer pays her to, and she acts like I'm the one who's somehow being unreasonable. And 30 to 40 minutes (at least!) to burn two CDs? They do appendectomies in less time than that! I'd literally make better time if I had a surgeon physically insert two copies of my scans into my abdomen than if I waited around for Beth Gates and her supercomputer.

Still, as it almost always somehow does, the logical 10% of my brain reeled in the emotional remainder and restrained me from any headbutting and unnecessary-if-lightning-fast surgical procedures. It convinced me that, as immediately satisfying as these two options might seem, simply pretending to be nice was my best chance of getting the two things that I most wanted out of the situation: my CDs and my revenge.

This is why I overlooked Beth's theatrics, apologized for interrupting her "busy" schedule, and thanked her for her "incredibly kind" help. It's why I sat in the lobby across the hall and watched CNN's round-the-clock coverage of Steve McNair's death and Michael Jackson's life for over an hour without complaint.

It's also why, when she finally emerged and wordlessly handed me my two discs, I waited until she slowly - oh-so-slowly - turned around and slithered back into her office, then I taped a "Free Candy, Just Knock!" sign, at optimal child viewing height, right next to her door.

I'd like to think the Vomit Twins were all over it on their way out.

Burrs, Etc.

2009-07-05T17:02:00.035-04:00

I passed through the last of the waist-high underbrush and entered the stand of white pines at the top of the hill. Breathing heavily, I sat down on a fallen trunk, both to catch my breath and to pick the tangle of burrs out of my knee-high socks. There were at least a few dozen of them - burrs, not socks - and I was in no hurry as I removed them one by one and savored the fragrant forest air.

It was true that I'd only embarked upon this hike to ensure that whatever is wrong with my back would be as visible as possible during tomorrow's latest round of scans (no, not those scans), but neither this fact nor my pain scale "frowny face" were able to diminish my delight at being outside and active on such a perfect summer day.

After a few minutes of plucking, my breath was back and my socks were cleaned, and I was ready to resume walking. I surveyed the rest of my clothing as I stood up, making sure I hadn't missed anything. It all looked fine. Shirt, clear. Shorts, clear. Wait.

Wait.

There it was. One last burr, this one lodged in the hair of my right leg, just above the top of my sock and just below my kneecap.

As I leaned over to extricate it, I marveled at how it could cling to something so insubstantial as a couple of hairs.

Then it moved.

The burr moved.

I froze.

It moved again.

I took a closer look at it, and as soon as I did, I exhaled with relief. It was just one of those little jumping spiders. You know the ones: dark gray, a little bigger than a match head, jump all over the place but are totally harmless. That's all it was.

I flicked it off my leg.

At least I tried to. It didn't budge.

I flicked it again. A direct hit. Nothing. It simply crawled (burrowed?) further along (into!) my leg.

Right then, I knew. This wasn't any harmless little jumping spider; it was a tick. A filthy, life-sucking tick, and it was everything I could do to keep from immediately gouging it out of my leg, caveman-style, with the nearest sharp rock.

Fortunately (for my leg, if not my cave cred), I remembered reading somewhere that ticks had to be removed very carefully to minimize the extent to which their disease-infested body parts and fluids entered the host's bloodstream. This meant that as much as I valued the Sharp Rock Technique's positives (immediate parasite removal, productive use of natural resources, cavewoman turn-on) even in the face of its notable negatives (hole in leg, possible tetanus, possible bleed-out, cavewoman turn-on), the significantly-increased risk of Lyme Disease was just enough to steer me towards a more modern approach.

This settled, I double-timed it back to the trail head, the whole time my mind attempting to trick me into thinking my leg was falling off - it's a tick, not a rattlesnake, mind!, and drove home at approximately four times the speed limit.

Once there, I quickly confirmed that fire, petroleum jelly, nail polish, alcohol, and any napalm-like combination thereof are all strictly discouraged approaches to tick removal. The recommended technique is simply a slow, steady, straight pull with flat tweezers.

With my wonderfully kind mother (i) supervising, (ii) overlooking my steady stream of cursing, and (iii) trying not to laugh (too hard) at my (ahem) slightly melodramatic performance, I finally tweezer-wrestled the little beast out of my leg after several heated minutes.

For the record, removing a tick is not at all like removing a really deep splinter. That's what I thought it would be like, but I was wrong. Splinters don't have scrambly little claw-legs and anchors for heads. This was more like pulling a lion off of a zebra with two broom handles. Fortunately, I'm an overcomer. Also fortunately, I'm pretty sure the entire process allowed me to flare my back up into a pain scale "crying face" in preparation for tomorrow.

Win-win.

P.S. - While conducting the above-referenced emergency research, I discovered that once you've extracted the tick, you're supposed to save and freeze its carcass so that if it infected you with something and you start to die, your medical professional can thaw it out and analyze it and figure out how to save you. Or maybe it's just to make things easier for whoever does your autopsy. I don't know.

P.P.S. - The reason the tweezers are in the freezer bag with my vanquished attacker is that after I finally removed it from my leg, it latched onto the them instead. Not interested in tweezing the tweezers, I just decided I'd just freeze everything and sort it all out later.

P.P.P.S. - The reason that I didn't take any gory pictures of the live tick while it was still eating my leg is that I was too focused on bravery and research and not dying to waste time on your entertainment. I'm sorry.

Crash Out

2009-07-01T00:49:00.009-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, an apparently orphaned baby raccoon moved into the hollow tree in my parents' backyard. Partly because I possess an inordinately kind soul, partly because I'm bored out of my mind waiting for my stupid back to finally get well, but mostly because I'm an idiot, I began putting little pieces of fruit up on the branch just outside his hole.

I also named him - "Crash," both because he reminds me a bit of a certain bandicoot, and because he slips and staggers around his tree about as gracefully as a drunken toddler. Truly, I've never seen a climbing animal that so regularly looked so likely to fall, and fall catastrophically. It's quite endearing.

But after several exciting days of leaving fruit and watching him bumble after it, leaving fruit and watching him bumble after it, I began to dementedly dream of much more. I just needed to gradually transition from these hit-and-run food drops to feeding him directly with a stick, I told myself, and from there it'd be but a few short steps to feeding him by hand, becoming fast friends, and traipsing adventurously through the woods together.

Yes, I really thought this. And yes, it could hardly be more insane. Me and my trusty sidekick, the raccoon. It's like some bizarre offspring of a Beverly Cleary book and one of those prison rehabilitation programs where inmates train seeing eye puppies.

But wait. It gets worse.

Because, you see, I actually did transition to go-go-gadget fruit kabobs. I actually did directly feed him two strawberries that I'd skewered at the end of a long stick. And for an instant, visions of old-timey children's literature once again danced through my addled head. Danny and His Raccoon or Danny and Crash, something like that. It was wonderful.

But as quickly as it began, this reverie came to a, well, crashing halt.

For as I continued to help this incredibly cute, incredibly endearing little creature consume approximately half its body weight in fruit, it hit me. Hard, and with lots of exclamation points. This wasn't a pet! It was a raccoon! Raccoons eat garbage! And spread diseases! Like right down this stick and right onto my hand and right this second!

And just like that, I knew.

I knew that Crash and I weren't the stars of a 1950s adventure book, no matter how much I wanted us to be. I knew that when baby raccoons grow up they become adult raccoons. And I knew that the only long-term relationship possible between an adult raccoon and an adult human is the kind that kept Davy Crockett's head warm right up until it got blown off at the Alamo. I knew all of these things.

It's just that no matter what I knew, or what I know, or how pointedly I've been trying to discuss this little forest fantasy in the past tense, I'm still having trouble not taking a little snack out there right now. He's just so cute. And I'm just so bored. And so kind. I'm so kind.

So shouldn't I just give him one more strawberry? Just one? The bubonic plague can't be that bad, can it?

The Ginger Prince

2009-06-26T12:28:00.001-04:00

I'm delighted to say that I have very bad news. Not for myself, of course - I'm not insane - and not for you, either - how terrible a person do you think I am? - but rather for your cousin or your co-worker or anyone else obnoxious enough to believe that they're in possession of The World's Greatest Child.

Please don't get me wrong. I love children. I do. I just don't love entitled little brats or the preening, coddling parents who make them possible. This is why what happened during the Italy-Brazil match at the Confederations Cup soccer tournament this past Sunday was so wonderful.

There were actually two things.

The first was the Brazilian freak show (this could have an entirely non-wonderful double meaning) that, in combination with the surprising U.S. victory over Egypt, allowed us to sneak into the tournament semifinals. This was a truly amazing turn of events (if slightly eclipsed by Wednesday's stunner over #1-ranked Spain), but is completely irrelevant to our current discussion.

The second reason for the match's noteworthiness, however, is entirely relevant to us, for it was nothing less than the internationally-televised coronation of The Official World's Greatest Child.

I came perilously close to laughing myself into a heart attack when I saw it live, and I think Paddy might have had a minor seizure (sometimes it's hard to tell with him; he's a Silent Laugher). Fortunately, we both survived, and as amazing as the match and the day's results had otherwise been, it was still the only thing that either of us wanted to talk about afterward. I can't tell you how overjoyed I am to have found it online and to be able to share it with you now:

Incredible, right? Unquestionably The World's Greatest, right?

The determination, the enthusiasm, the delicate index finger recalibration of the Klondike stylus right before the forehead smear coup de grâce. I'm still speechlessly in awe of this young man, several dozen viewings later.

So let it be known - officially and conclusively - all you derangedly self-impressed, ceaselessly-trumpeting parents out there. Your little Harpers and Averys and Madisons may be good, they may be great, but they will never, ever be The Greatest.