Blogonoscopy

Holiday Cards (!!!)

2011-12-12T18:39:00.006-05:00

I'm not going to pretend that it hasn't been a long time. I'm not going to pretend that it might not be a long time again.

But that's not what we're here to talk about today. Take a look at a calendar, or go cut a hole in a river and jump into it, and see if you can figure out what we are here to talk about.

Assuming you aren't currently dying of hypothermia in the back of an ambulance, congratulations. You're correct.

We're here to talk about The Holiday Cards, version 5.0. More specifically, we're here to talk about how anyone still lurking around this dusty corner of the internet might go about getting his or her frostbitteny hands on one.

Mainly because far too much of my far too limited brainpower has recently been diverted towards fighting off spastic hordes of tiny little science-major babies all hopped up on Red Bull and Adderall, I haven't come up with any new ideas for how to disperse said Cards. Accordingly, we're just going to roll it back and do it like we have the last couple of years.

Well, there is one slightly new qualifier. It's still extremely simple and painless, though. At least compared to jumping into a frozen river. The deal:

You: Send us an original holiday card of your own. This means that it either (i) features a picture of you, your family, or your TMNT action figure collection, or (ii) is homemade. No one shall be permitted to run out and spend their hard-earned money on a store-bought card for a couple of jokers like us. Just send us one of the cards you're already sending out to everyone else, or glue some cutout magazine heads to some construction paper and call it a day. If you don't have magazines, use a marker. If no glue, use gum. Creativity always encouraged. Occupy Arts and Crafts Street.

In return:

We: Send you a Holiday Card, v.5.0 unless and until we've run out, in which case we shall send you our most extremely righteous telekinetic Holiday Vibes instead. Either way, we'll be sure to post a digital version of this year's Card by the end of the month so that everyone can join in on the fun ("fun").

Deal? Deal. PS: In case you've forgotten, here's our address.

Happy Holidays!

Breaking News: Great Clips to Hire Amish Beard-Cutting Attackers

2011-10-28T18:14:00.008-04:00

CEO Hans Snideman announced at a press conference this morning that Great Clips, Inc., the undisputed market leader in the rapidly expanding "terrible haircut" sector, has agreed to contractual terms with three key members of the breakaway Amish group charged with violent beard-cutting attacks on several other Amish communities throughout Ohio during the last several months.

Compensation information for Levi Miller and the auspiciously-named brothers Johnny and Lester Mullet was not immediately available, but Snideman announced that the three would immediately take charge of the company's renowned Customer Disservice division.

Snideman noted that new hires had also been strongly pursued by Great Clips competitors Supercuts, Fantastic Sam's, and your crazy one-eyed aunt, but had ultimately concluded that Great Clips represented an unparalleled opportunity for the violent destruction of other people's hairstyles.

"These are men at the very height of the profession," he enthused. "They bring a truly unique capacity for savagely disregarding the follicular wishes of their victims... er...customers, and the entire Great Clips family is delighted to welcome them aboard."

Messrs. Miller, Mullet, and Mullet were not present at the press conference due to an unforeseen scheduling conflict with their kidnapping and assault trial, but industry analysts expressed great enthusiasm for the hires, and Great Clips stock (NYSE: SCLPS) rose nearly 18% in an afternoon of feverish trading.

Real Talk

2011-09-23T17:01:00.009-04:00

By now you're surely well-acquainted with the major news story of the last several days.

It's not hard to understand how such a life-and-death issue can bring out so much vitriol in those with opposing viewpoints. No matter what your position, the emotions involved in something so permanent and violent and tragic are almost inherently preclusive of reasonable discourse.

The anger.

The horror.

The sadness.

The fear.

I guess, for me, it's just hard to get so emotionally worked up over Netflix's decision to separate its DVD and streaming offerings into two separate companies because I can still remember what it was like having to rent VHS tapes from Blockbuster.

Have a nice weekend.

Love, Dan.

Art-a-Tron! Engage!

2011-08-14T19:10:00.008-04:00

For the last 48 hours, I've been doing two things, and two things only: (1) watching Star Trek (The Next Generation) (duh) episodes via Netflix streaming, and (2) attempting to create a stencil painting for Paddyboy's birthday on Monday.

Now, at long last, with my hands, face, and entire respiratory system caked in toluene, and with all of the rest of me suffering from a near-irresistible urge to shout questions out loud at "the Computer," it is finished.

The painting, I mean. The painting is finished. I still have four and a half TNG seasons to go, so nothing to worry about on the dorkiness front. But yes. The painting is finished, and I think it turned out mostly okay, the five -- yes, five -- emergency resupply runs I had to make today aside, and the right-at-the-very-end colossal screw-up at least mostly aside.

Anyway, in a spirit of exhaustion, celebration, emphysema, and exploration of outer space, I present to you, The House of Zef.

The Initial Sketch: I'll thank you to keep your snarky comments to a minimum. It's just a freehand outline that I could blow up to canvas size (24" x 36"), and I always end up making a bunch of adjustments (most intentional, many not) when cutting the actual stencil anyway.

The Mock-Up: Possibly overkill, but I figured it couldn't hurt to make sure that, you know, at least some of the stuff I was trying to put on the canvas, you know, actually fit. A Bit of Background: Paddy is (rightfully) obsessed with the South African lunatic rap group Die Antwoord. He's been making his own t-shirts lately with "House of Zef" written on them, and one of the members of DA, Yo-Landi, has a pet mouse that she's always carrying around with her. Hence the lettering, hence the image. Not Pictured in the Mock-Up: The all-important, all-terrifying checkerboard pattern that I wanted to try to stencil on top of the mouse as a tribute to another of Paddy's heroes, one of the all-time greatest characters in cinematic history, Jeff Spicoli. A Huge Shout-Out: To Artist Cousin, who provided invaluable guidance as to the least-horrible way of making a minimally-embarrassing attempt at a checkerboard stencil.

Some Intermediate Stage: You can see that the fateful checkerboard attempt has now begun, and if you look closely enough, you can also see that an ominous haze of dread has filled the entire studio (garage).

Some Intermediater Stage: Approximately 6 hours, 4 TNG episodes, and the aforementioned 5 resupply runs from when I'd begun, the preliminary layers had gone well enough, and the checkerboard was mostly -- and miraculously -- not a complete disaster. I still don't really want to talk about any specifics for fear that this is just a happy, paint-inhalation-induced fantasy and I'm going to wake up to something out of Alice in Wonderland.

The Lettering: At this point, all I really had left to do was wait. Wait for the paint to dry, wait to remove the cardboard, and wait to remove the stencils. Almost all I'd been doing all day was waiting, and all I had to do was wait just a tiny bit longer. So what did I do? Did I wait? Did I?

NO I DID NOT WAIT I JUST ACTED LIKE THE MORONIC MORON THAT I AM AND STARTED PULLING EVERYTHING OFF IN A GIANT IDIOTIC RUSH AND ONE OF THE STILL-WET-PAINTED COINS I WAS USING TO HOLD THE LAYERS FLUSH TO THE CANVAS FLIPPED UP OFF OF ONE OF THE STENCILS AND STUCK TO THE EXPOSED CANVAS AND LEFT A COIN-SHAPED MARK THAT I FRANTICALLY SPENT 45 MINUTES TRYING TO FIX MOSTLY IN VAIN AND IT WAS ONLY BY CHANNELING THE OVERPOWERING COMPOSURE OF CAPTAIN JEAN-LUC PICARD THAT I DIDN'T GO MENTAL AND BURN THE ENTIRE HOUSE DOWN.

The Finished Product: Um. Ahem. Yes. Well, aquí esta. It's not at all perfect, obviously enough, but it's not the total debacle it very well could have been, either. Frankly, I think we'd be justified in rounding it up to a win solely on account of no houses being burned down. Anyway, once I'd finally, actually, let it dry, I cleaned it off, took it upstairs for the grand, night-before presentation to the almost-birthday boy. . . and. . . found out that he'd fallen asleep ten minutes earlier.

Indeed.

Well, I guess I'll just have to watch another dozen episodes to cheer myself up.

MAKE IT SOOOOOOOOooooooooooo!

Hey! Wha' Happened?

2011-07-30T12:28:00.006-04:00

I know this doesn't count as a real post. I'll see what I can do about excluding it from the total tally in the increasingly appropriately-titled "Microfiche" sidebar.

And I genuinely do have a bunch of genuinely real posts rattling around in my dusty attic of a skull right now; I just won't be able to properly track them down for at least a few days yet. I'm too busy trying to keep from getting murdered by biology.

A brief teaser, though, of the upcoming topics, to prove that I'm not lying, and also to prove that I'm extremely annoying: 1. The Worst Restaurant Meal of My Life, With The Pale Rider!, 2. Potential Roadtrip News!, 3. A New Painting Commission!, or, How Does One Master Oil Paints in 48 Hours, or, Where's Bob Ross When You Really Need Him?, and finally, as the last shall be first and the first shall be last (and please do make sure to fasten all seatbelts, sign all waivers, and schedule your ambulance in advance), 4. Paddyboy has a Blog!

Okay. Now. Back to the previously scheduled untallied programming.

Fred Willard. One of the great underappreciated artists of our time, I submit, and while this definitely isn't anywhere near his best material, it's still quite genius and it's still been stuck in my head all week.

Hey! Wha' Happened?

Slap Chop Photo Shop

2011-07-20T23:16:00.001-04:00

[Shouty Infomercial Guy voice]: DO YOU LIKE THE INTERNET?????? DO FUNNY PICTURES MAKE YOU LAUGH-- SO HARD??????? DO YOU THINK TECHNOLOGY IS-- SO AMAZING AND FANCY??????? YES!!!!!! YES YOU DO!!!!!!!! WE CAN READ YOUR MIND!!!!!!!!!

[Shouty Infomercial Guy voice (still)]: AND LET ME TELL YOU RIGHT NOW THAT YOU'RE IN LUCK YOU WACKY LEPRECHAUN BECAUSE I HAVE THE BEST OFFER YOUR WACKY SHAMROCK BRAIN HAS EVER HEARD OF IN THE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE!!!!!

[Shouty Infomercial Guy voice (still)]: YES THAT'S RIGHT THANKS TO A UNPRECEDENTED HERPES OUTBREAK IN MAINLAND CHINA I'M ABLE TO OFFER YOU A ONCE IN A LIFETIME FREE TRIAL INTRODUCTORY TRIAL OF THE BEST FUNNY INTERNET PRODUCT YOU CAN EVEN IMAGINE!!!! TRY!!!!!! TRY!!!!!!!! SEE?????? YOU DID NOT JUST IMAGINE IT!!!! WE JUST READ YOUR MIND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Shouty Infomercial Guy voice (still)]: I CAN'T EVEN BELIEVE THIS OFFER MYSELF AND I AM ABLE TO READ MINDS!!!!!!!!!!!! AND GUESS WHAT I'M AS SERIOUS AS THAT OUTBREAK WHEN I SAY IT'S FREE TO ONE LUCKY CALLER!!!!!!!!!!! ALL THAT WE NEED IS A NAME AND A LINK TO A PHOTO AND A LIST OF THREE ITEMS TO BE INCLUDED IN THE FINAL PHOTOGRAPH AND YOU JUST WAIT AND SEE BECAUSE THAT LUCKY WINNER IS GOING TO GET A FREE INTERNET SPECIALTY SENSATION!!!!!!!!!!!!! AND THEY WILL BE ALLOWED TO KEEP IT FOREVER AS PART OF THIS INTRODUCTORY TRIAL OFFER AND IF YOU THINK THIS SOUNDS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE YOU'D USUALLY BE RIGHT EXCEPT FOR THIS TIME AND MAYBE A COUPLE OTHERS AND JUST TAKE A LOOK AT OUR PREVIOUS DELIGHTED WINNERS AND HURRY UP AND CONTACT US NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Call-Outers Gon' Call Out

2011-07-16T10:57:00.007-04:00

I've been getting called out quite a bit lately for my lack of blogging.

Do you know what getting called out is? It's when someone much lamer and dumber than you tries to make you feel bad about something that you've already forgotten about because you stopped listening to them and started loudly fake-snoring after their first few words.

Do you know what the worst part about getting called out is? No matter how exquisitely you've expressed your disdain for any-and-everyone doing it, if you ever happen to (coincidentally) decide to do what they'd (apparently) been blathering on about, they'll all immediately take full credit.

They'll conclude that they've succeeded, that calling you out is effective. They'll begin to do so more and more frequently, with a wider and wider range of complaints. You will be under constant siege. Your fake-snoring muscles will scream in agony.

There's only one known solution. I just invented it right now. It's to do whatever you're being called out about -- here, in case you've lost track somehow, it's blogging -- so terribly badly that no one could ever possibly be interested in taking credit for it.

And now you see the genius. I was born for this.

So, without any (further) further ado, let's have a list! Everybody hates those! The unofficial theme of this one will be inspired by Paddyboy's best man speech earlier today (I'm claiming at least Assistant to the Co-Writer credit), the unofficial theme of which was "Second place is the place to be."

The Best Movie I've Watched Since I Last Blogged:
1. True Grit
2. The Parking Lot Movie

The Best Book I've Read Since I Last Blogged:
1. On The Road
2. Palm Sunday

The Best Album I've Listened To Since I Last Blogged:
1. Bon Iver - Bon Iver
2. The New Pornographers - Challenger

The Best Meal I've Eaten Since I Last Blogged:
1. Entire 16oz can of chipotle peppers in adobo sauce
2. Las Palmas Carniceria Sidewalk Stand Tacos

The Best Internet Video I've Viewed Since I Last Blogged:
1. Dis-a-ppointed! (yes, I'm still watching it.)
2a. Planking. Don't.
2b. Howling. Do.

The Best Food&PantsMan Blog That Will Certainly Be Discontinued Before I Next Blog:
1. All 87 prior blogs, tie
2. The Pale Rider

THE END!

Disappointment

2011-06-28T22:03:00.005-04:00

DON'T BE SALTY.

That's what the cover of my autobiography will say, assuming I live long and scandalously enough to get away with biographicating myself, and also assuming that the representatives of Douglas Adams agree with the opinion of my legal staff that any allusion to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is perfectly incidental (and extremely flattering, anyway).

DON'T BE SALTY.

It will say the same thing on the back cover too (for emphasis), although the back will probably be done in some sort of 5-dimensional time lapse hologram or something, in keeping with the times. The hologram may or may not include an idealized representation of me singing a rousing medley of inspirational songs I may or may not have written about myself.

DON'T BE SALTY.

This will be the general theme of the actual work itself, as well, a fiendishly clever, self-ironical motif wending its way through the seemingly (but not necessarily!) random mixture of hilarious stories (about me!), delicious recipes (for food and success!), paint-by-number portraits (of me!), and sheet music (the holographic medley!).

But hold on a minute, you might be thinking. Just hold it right there.

How on earth is anyone ever going to complete (or even begin!) a work of such breathtaking significance and magnitude if he can't even consistently update a simple old (3-dimensional) website (that doesn't even have any music or portraits or anything)?

...

DON'T BE SALTY.

PS - This is officially my favorite video that I've seen this year. I'm personally responsible for at least two-thirds of those views.

The Buffalo Down

2011-05-06T16:15:00.005-04:00

I can't get the smell of buffalo wings out of my nose. I have no idea how it got in there, but it did, and it's been there since sometime yesterday morning.

Perhaps you think this isn't such a bad thing. Perhaps you think that the scent of sour meat is inoffensive, even enjoyable. Perhaps you're very much like I was about 36 hours ago: (1) male, (2) hungry, and (3) stupid.

The problem with Eau de Buffle, though, is that it doesn't have much of a shelf life, no matter how much of how many of those aforementioned three things one might be. The other problem is that the only options for attempting to extract such an intractable odor from the depths of one's own proboscis all seem quite capable of having made William Wallace talk.

Then again, maybe I shouldn't try removing it at all. Maybe it's some sort of sign. An omen. Of what, it's hard to speculate. I guess let's just say that if anyone knows anyone who might be capable of interpreting a happy interpretation about this vinegary little situation, please direct them my way. Quickly.

***

In other news, using the term as loosely and self-ridiculingly as possible, I'm happy to report that the first semester of my still-unannounced secret mission has been successfully completed. I know that telling only the beginning of a story is a crime worthy of swift and painful death, but it's just far too likely that I (1) still manage to screw things up, (2) change my mind and try something else instead, and/or (3) require the postponement of overt discussion in order to ensure a properly frantic effort.

Besides, the only reason I even allude to the endeavor at all is so that I can provide dispatches from the front, as it were, without seeming to make absolutely no sense. At least as judged on my own preexisting curve.

Speaking of which, and by way of sincerest apology for the story stallout, I offer the photo below of the Lucky Finals Moustaches* grown by my comrades and I in our joint efforts to succeed most mightily in our disparate missions of varying secrecy.

*I would just like to note that I am painfully aware that many dictionaries list "mustache," without the "o," as the primary spelling of the word, but that I find such practice both etymologically and morally reprehensible, and shall never myself do any such thing unless by mistake.

Finally, I'd just like to note that any rumors of this website's demise have been greatly misunderestimated. Which is to say, well, nothing. That's not a word. But which is also to say, that although at some point this little corner of the internet will necessarily go the way of the mighty beast whose wings are currently flapping most obnoxiously throughout my nasal passages, that point has not yet been reached.

Onward and upward! and Geronimo! and etc. and etc.

This Means You, Every Minivan Driver Ever

2011-04-12T00:20:00.001-04:00

The Ides of March Madness

2011-03-15T00:09:00.001-04:00

[UPDATE: 2011 NCAA Bracket posted below]

Do you know what I love?

I love when you walk into a public restroom and find that some troglodyte has peed so comprehensively on the floor around the urinals that your only possible options are to go buy a pair of wading boots or to launch a doomed-from-the-beginning, Guinness-Book-of-World-Records, long-distance Hail Mary.

I love that.

Do you know what else I love?

The NCAA tournament. And winning. (Shut up, Charlie Sheen.) And helping other people win. (And again.) So don't worry. This year's bracket will very shortly be appended to this post for your unlimited and unrestricted use. ("Unrestricted" applying especially to any sharing of any resultant winnings.)

But first, there's one more thing I love, especially today. March 15th.

Yes, that's right! It's Big Slow's birthday! He's 25! Okay, fine! Not quite! But when he was about 25, he got his picture taken with the greatest professional wrestler in the history of, well, professional wrestling. Yes that's right! Andre the Giant!

And although -- tragedy of unspeakable tragedies -- that remarkable photo has somehow long since disappeared, that doesn't mean we can't enjoy a truTV-quality dramatization of what that meeting might have looked like, way back when. And with that, I give you: The One, The Only, The Incomparably-Mustachioed Big Slow (pre-Big Slow days, of course) and The One, The Only, The Guinness World Record Holder for Longest Long-Distance Public Restroom Hail Mary (unverified, of course).

Happy Birthday, Slow!

Bracket ~~Soon~~ Here, Everybody Else!

DELUXE DOUBLE POST: Chuck Update & Holiday Card Review

2011-03-07T21:03:00.001-05:00

[Massive Disclaimer: This post was written in the midst of a yerba mate binge the likes of which would certainly rival any inebriation ever produced by any Wild West saloon or Wild East opium den or any other site of intoxicating iniquity. And while it's sometimes speculated that many of the most splendid human insights and achievements have been aided in no small part by, shall we say, artificial chemical stimuli, it most certainly shall never be opined that anything included herein might similarly bolster such claims.]

[Massive Uncertainty: Did that even mean anything? I think so, but I obviously can't be sure. I stopped halfway through the actual post once the need for a Massive Disclaimer became apparent, even to me, even in the midst of my herbal frenzy, but I'm not sure that the above has remedied the situation much. Here. One last try.]

[Massive Overkill: This post is far too long and rambling to be worth the time of anyone not currently incarcerated in a federal Supermax prison.]

Okay. Alright.

So this Deluxe Double Post (TM, of course) is so far past overdue that it's almost come full circle and become on time again. For next year. Or next catastrophe. Or something. But whatever. Surely that won't be held against anyone. Things have been extremely hectic around here lately, and then there's the economy, and then there's global warming, and then there's watching the latest YouTube obsession on infinite loop.

So surely you all understand. Surely. And if not, I'll just sic Marcel's brother (and his bludgeony brush) on you, and that'll take care of any attitudinal saltiness right quick.

But back to the DDP (abbreviation also TM). Let's just dive right into it.

Chuck. And his horrifying disappearance. And the gut-wrenching (melo)drama. And the unconscionable delay in communication thereregarding*.

*Yes, that word is new, and yes it is also TM. Everything is TM. Everything.

But Chuck. I'm delighted to say that on that front, at least, I have marvelous news, and it was actually a wonderfully intrepid (if disconcertingly CNN Headline News-watching) blog reader who cracked the case.

Chuck was not catnapped. Repeat: Not. Catnapped. By that fiendish old crone or otherwise. It turns out, straighforwardly enough, that despite all the fun he and I were having together -- paling around, watching Star Trek reruns, massacring local ruminants -- there was something missing from his life. Something I obviously couldn't and wouldn't ever provide.

Yes, I'm talking about Tiger Love (not TM, actually). And I know! I know! This is a family website and we usually avoid such prurience as jungle cat procreation, but the facts are the facts, and the story must be told. Or at least alluded to.

So there it is. Chuck was not catnapped; he had simply run away with a lady friend (not the crone! a tiger lady friend!) for a little while, run away to some highly questionable state down south where apparently the Bengals flock like the salmon of Capistrano. The good news -- the great news! -- is that once the situation had been so incisively illuminated, he and I had a long, emotional, man-to-tiger talk in which we worked out an arrangement. He: will never again disappear on one of these little love jaunts without informing me in advance, and I: will never again discuss Tiger Love (his or otherwise) (still not TM) on this oh-so-barely-still-family website.

You see?

An excellent deal for everyone, as cannot possibly be contested.

And again, none of this ever would've been resolved without the invaluable assistance of that thereregarding reader.

Speaking of whom (awesome segue alert!) (no, not awesome Segway alert!), as a thank you for her eternally-appreciated assistance in Part 1 of the DDP (still TM), she shall have the honor of kicking off Part 2.

The Holiday Cards Recap.

I know, I know. Silence yourselves. The excuses have already been issued and forgiveness has already been presumed. As always, the cards received were manifold and majestic, and while only a small fraction can and will be noted here, all were deeply appreciated.

Except for the printout photo cards that weren't even personalized with our names or a note or anything.

(Just kidding!)

(No, not just kidding. Borrow a pen. Write a sentence.)

Anyway, The Recap. The best of the best!

Best Handmade Card (and Defending Champion), Fantastically Deranged Children's Book Illustrator Division: Sent separately in two shipments, it was obviously, colossally, worth both the wait and the assembly. PS - The beards were actually individually tailored and labeled, and came pre-stickificated. Cat Lady's fit so perfectly that I actually caught myself trying to remember if maybe she'd really had a beard in real life; Trash Can Turkey's fit a little less perfectly, considering, well, he (or she) had long since been relieved of his (or her) head. All in all, spectacular.

Best Handmade Card (and Defending Champion), Soon To Be Framed Division: This is, without even the slightest doubt, the first and only and unquestionably-unsurpassable mashup of the Peanuts Christmas Special and Ronnie Coleman. It made me laugh out loud in shock and delight in the post office. Yes. I don't even. I really. It. Yes.

Best Handmade Card, Could Probably Stop A Bullet Division: Wrought out of industrial-strength corrugated cardboard and approximately six rolls of reinforced duct tape, this haunting ~~little~~ gigantic number weighed in at about 15 pounds. I'm not sure if the sender feared for our corporate safety, or whether he (or she) was simply the size of Andre the Giant, but either way, um, wow.

Best Handmade Card, Singlehandedly Keeping The Postal Service In Business Division: If you thought two separate shipments was excessive, just wait until your overdeveloped judginess gets a load of this one. Six separate deliveries, on successive days; the only downside to this otherwise-amazing story is of course that my name isn't Felix and that the sender can't spell. "Sad face."

~~Best~~ Scariest Handmade Card, If Chuck Were Still Missing You'd Be The Prime Suspect Division: Annnnd I think that about covers that.

Best (Semi-)Handmade Card, If You Think I'm Spending The Six Months I Realized It'd Take To Put That Thing Together After About 30 Seconds Of Trying, Y'all Musta Forgot Division: Thank you for the thought, though, I think!

Best (Very-)Handmade Card, If You Think I'm Spending The Six Months I Realized It'd Take To Read That Thing After About 30 Seconds Of Trying, Y'all Musta Forgot Division: Thank you for the thought, though, I think! (This was but one of about 300 yarnbound pages.) ((Shut up, I forgot to take a second picture.)

Best Handmade Card, Fellow Grinch Division: (The inside noted that the sender didn't much care for Christmas so had decided to (make and) send a New Year's card instead.) (Shut up, I forgot to take a second picture.)

Best Handmade Card, Double-Insult Your Recipient Division: A bold strategy that would certainly fail, and catastrophically, should it ever be oh-so-foolishly attempted a second time.

Best (Semi-)Handmade (Semi-)Card, (Very-)Blatantly Recycled Division: A bold strategy that would certainly fail, and catastrophically, should it ever be oh-so-foolishly attempted a second time. (To be fair, the inside of the card contained a download link to an mp3 album, the best track from which is one of the current Hot Jams (I'll let you figure out which).)

Best Handmade Card, Inadvertent Support For Pittsburgh's Hockey Team Division: A fortunate and beautiful effort, to be sure.

Best ~~Hand~~Footmade Card, Inadvertent Support For Pittsburgh's Baseball Team Division: A (slightly-less) fortunate and (slightly-less) (but still!) beautiful effort, to be sure.

Best (Semi-)Handmade Card, Extremely (Un-)Inadvertent Support For Pittsburgh's Hockey Team Division: A rousing and beautiful effort, to be sure.

Best (Non-)Handmade Card, THIS IS WHAT CHRISTMAS IS REALLY ALL ABOUT Division: I don't have any idea what this actually says, and I don't want to have any idea, you Francophone know-it-alls. It's perfect -- absolutely, ravishingly perfect -- exactly as it is. Fun Fact: This card was actually sent from France, by Artist Cousin's Brother. Wow. I think that was actually a Deluxe Double Fun Fact! (TM!)

Best (Semi-)Handmade Card, I Don't Care If I Whined Earlier About Non-Personalized Photo Cards This Lady Knows How To Party Division: This supernova of holiday cheer was almost enough to singlehandedly de-Grinchify me, at least temporarily.

Best (Non-)Handmade Card, Biff Tannen Sidekick Starter Kit Division: WHAT ARE YOU LOOKIN AT, BUTTHEAD?

Best (Non-)Handmade (Non-)Card, Korean Scatological Humor Division: My Korean is a little rusty, but the item on the left is toothpaste that says something to the effect of "There's Poop In My Toothpaste!" Of course it does. The item on the right is a slightly less-excrement-focused package of dental floss.

Best (Non-)Handmade (Non-)Card, Early-Onset Dementia Emergency Swimming Kit Division: Remember this tweet? Of course you don't. But this sender did. And how. If you think I haven't already worn the Floaties with my Party Swimsuit, you disappoint me. (Greatly.) PS - We got about 400 of those Twilight cards, which is probably like a billionth of a percent of the total number in circulation this season. There is no hope for humanity. No. Hope.

[Annnnnnnnd THE END.]

[Kindly insert your own (semi-)witty conclusion here.]

[My (non-)brain is so far beyond tapped out I'm not even sure another case of yerba mate can (semi-)resuscitate it.]

[Until next year! (and three months!) (or more!) (or whatever!)]

[Happy Holidays!]

Bansai!

2011-02-28T11:30:00.007-05:00

[UPDATE below!]

If you know me, you know that I love Ito En bottled tea more than anything else on earth. Yes, anything.

And if you know Ito En, you know that they have an occasional haiku contest, the winners of which get their name and poetry printed on the beautiful Ito En bottles. Yes, their name and poetry.

UPDATE: I suppose, to be fair, that this isn't as much an UPDATE as a PROLOGUE, or a BACKGROUND, or maybe just AN EXCUSE TO USE A GREAT DEAL OF UNNECESSARY TEXT EMPHASIS, but I'm sure that's okay. Right? Super.

So. I'd actually submitted my entry to the Ito En haiku contest about three years ago. Three years ago. Anyway, as I recall, the only requirements had been that it be the standard 5-7-5 format and thematically reference a season. Fair enough, I'd thought. But then I hadn't heard back for a week. Then a month. Then two months.

Finally, at last, I stopped waiting "nonchalantly" at the door all day for my Publishers Clearinghouse-style congratulatory notification. I had a good cry, ate a couple of gallons of cookies 'n cream, and swore off Japanese poetry forever. Then I forgot all about it. Completely. Forever. Until this afternoon. At about one o'clock.

I was driving home from the grocery store, you see, where I'd picked up the now-legendary bottle. I'd only barely decided to get it, though -- a fact which shall haunt and thrill me for the rest of my days. How close had I come to deciding on a bottle of regular green instead? (Very.) How close had I come to never having discovered the most magnificent success I shall ever achieve in this lifetime? (Very.) How close did I come to making that thought a flaming fireball of reality by driving my car directly off the road in shock and euphoria when I read my name (and masterpiece) on the label? (Oh-so very.)

But verily I say unto you: I did decide on it and I did discover it and I did (just barely) avoid dying on account of it.

Now, as for whether or not I -- in my rush to spread the great and glorious news upon my arrival home -- forgot to turn my headlights off and killed my car's battery? Well, that's a story for a different season.

A Greenish Sort of Silver

2011-02-22T00:13:00.000-05:00

Let's say you're a very nice person. It's okay if you're actually not. In fact, as far as real life goes, it's much better than okay if you're actually not, at least if we're grading by my answer key, and so long as it's in a properly calibrated way. But I digress.

You're a very nice person.

You're kind, and positive, and constantly encouraging. It's practically impossible for you to be otherwise. Day after day, you find silver lining after silver lining in genuinely shambolic circumstances. You compliment and congratulate and celebrate -- objectivity and reality be damned.

You -- are a Pilates instructor.

And you -- own a beautiful, modern studio with gleaming equipment and sparse, tasteful decoration.

And you -- have a client who has just presented you with a handmade gift, ostensibly in thanks for all of that constant encouragement.

All of that constant encouragement.

For which you will curse yourself every last day until you mercifully depart this wretched speck of dust.

(For, well, "comparison.")

Paddyboy TKOs It

2011-02-14T00:01:00.004-05:00

This is far and away the best commercial currently on television, and is possibly amongst the ten greatest of all time.

I've seen it probably fifty times on air, and about fifty times that many more on YouTube, over and over and over again. I will never get tired of it.

Aside from it starring Paddyboy's style double, is any of you brilliant enough to understand exactly why?

Packing Them In

2011-02-07T23:26:00.006-05:00

There's a reason I don't trim my fingernails as often as I ought.

It's not that I'm secretly five years old and have decided I'm going to be a velociraptor when I grow up. It's not that I'm secretly seventy years old and need to remain properly threatening when the pickup shuffleboard scene gets a little too knifey.

It's nothing nearly so outlandish.

It's that I'm psychic.

I knew you were going to say that. (Of course I did.) But just wait. (I knew you would.) Think about it for a minute. Doesn't it all make so much more sense now? Or at least some of it? The out-of-control shaman's beard? The come-to-life stuffed tiger? The remarkable lack of braggy pre-Super Bowl proclamations?

Right? You see it now, don't you?

I really am psychic. I really do know when good or bad things are about to happen.

And that really is why I don't trim my fingernails very often, and why I especially haven't trimmed them for the last month or so. I'd felt that same old premonition again. I'd seen the future and knew it'd be filled with grapefruits to peel, and stickers to remove, and giant, ancient, deeply-imbedded boogers to excavate.

So do you see it now? Do you finally understand?

If I'd trimmed my fingernails, what would I have had to hide in the "congratulatory" chocolate chip cookies I mailed to Aaron Rodgers this afternoon?

Errything We Do, We Do It Big

2011-01-23T23:39:00.006-05:00

Pittsburgh's Goin' To The Su-u-per Bowl!

(PS - Coming Soon: Chucknapping Update, Holiday Card Recap, Record-Setting Grapefruit Performance, this and that, etc. and etc., loveyougoodnight.]

The Catnapping

2011-01-11T10:31:00.001-05:00

Terror.

Frantic, sickening terror.

That's how I'd describe my emotional state right now, if I were coherent enough to have one.

Why?

Here's why:

Chuck. Has. Been. Catnapped.

I don't even know how.

I don't even know when.

It must have been during the Steeler game. It must have been. That was the only time he was out of my sight for more than a few minutes. I'd let him outside to hunt some deer, and at halftime, I'd seen him a few houses up stalking a couple of the neighbor kids, but when -- after enjoying a lengthy post-game celebration for which I may never forgive myself -- I went outside to bring him back in, he was nowhere to be found.

I called for him. I searched everywhere. I even grilled up a couple of salmon fillets -- his favorite -- in the hopes that he was just embarrassed at not catching any deer, or at catching too many neighbor kids, or at something silly like that, and that he'd come bounding right back at the reassuring aroma.

But nothing.

At all.

Until sometime around 8 PM, right after I'd finished off the fillets myself, when I received the horrifying photo displayed above.

It was sent via text-less, subject-less email from the account of a mutual friend -- or rather, a sadistic ex-mutual friend -- who is apparently acting as a go-between for the leering villainess in the photo.

I don't have even the slightest idea what to do.

I want to get Chuck back safely, but with just a single wordless email, I obviously haven't gotten any ransom instructions, or any do-not-contact-the-authorities warnings, or any of the other directions that kidnappers usually give.

I want to track down that Benedict Arnold ex-friend and her Orville-Redenbacher-looking Jabba The Hut freak of a boss, and exact infinite murderous revenge on them both, but I'm obviously a little bit low on homicidal sidekicks right now.

I don't have even the slightest idea what to do.

I just want my friend back.

Holiday Casserole

2011-01-03T18:17:00.002-05:00

There are so many different things I want to talk about right now -- earth-shattering things, earth-sharting things -- that I'm either going to have to resort to random, unordered bullet points or attempt to relay everything in mural form.

Unfortunately, as enticing as the latter option might otherwise be, my 3' x 6' dry erase board isn't arriving until next week (brutal product name aside, I really did order one and I really can't wait), and I'm not sure it's in my best mental interest to wait that long. So it goes. We'll just have to do this in the infinitely inane "Best of" style that's so prevalent this time of year.

Or maybe we won't. I suppose we could at least split the difference. A list of random photos, say. With caption intros. It's (sort of) worked before. It could (sort of) could now.

Annnnd go:

Holiday Card & Stamp: Thank you again to everyone who sent us cards, and here's hoping at least most of you got something back in return. I'm still planning on doing a (here we go again) "Best of" wrap-up of cards received, just not quite yet. I think we already have enough going on right now anyway. Speaking of which, The Card. Congratulations to everyone who recognized which of us was which, shame on anyone (you know who you are) who didn't, and double-shame on us for never even imagining this might be a problem. Also, Santa Kong.

Chuck The Tiger: This ferocious feline is, if not the best impulse purchase of my career, easily in the top-5. (Walgreen's, Christmas Day, $30, and okay, fine, technically The Butler is the one who paid for him, but I obviously would have if I hadn't "forgotten" my wallet in the car.) Named after the The Wine That Started A New Thanksgiving Tradition That Inspired A New Christmas Tradition (see why a mural might have been the only way out of this mess?), he's quickly proven himself a trusty companion and an instant party-starter both.

Christmas Drunkfire: Speaking of parties (and new holiday traditions), Chuck (and Chuck) started this one. And may have finished it.

The Afterparty: Speaking of finished, I'm bound by a strict confidentiality agreement that prevents me from discussing the shocking and hilarious aftermath of the Drunkfire. Specifically regarding the gastrointestinal gong show to which one particular participant was reduced. And specifically regarding anything the rest of us might have had to clean up as a result. I'll just leave you with this quote from the oh-so-fittingly-titled Les Miserables: "For there are things which open the eyes of the dead in their graves."

The Gong Show Returns: Incredibly enough, that very same Gong Show made an encore appearance exactly one week later, with extra gong. (And this time, a photo of the proceedings was secured -- a photo which, with proper editing, proved the perfect combination of publicly presentable and terminally mortifying.) While the rest of us were settling in for a nice restful night in preparation for The Winter Classic the following day, the GS required an emergency Four-Loko-induced trip to the hospital. I wish I were kidding. But of course I don't. I will be making jokes about this for the rest of my (own gong show of a) life. For starters, The Special Gong Show Commemorative Edition Winter Classic Patch:

El Clasico: While the scoreboard result wasn't exactly what anyone was looking for, and while the weather vacillated between bothersome and homicidal, this was still one of the greatest sporting events I've had the fortune to attend. Huge holiday h/t to The Butler for securing some amazing seats. (I'd have gotten them myself, of course, but, you know, wallet in the car, etc. and etc.)

The (New) Mystery Adventure: This is (another) one of those things about which I'm so simultaneously excited and terrified that I feel I have no choice but to remain secretive and annoying, at least for now. I'm doing a thing; it may be awesome; it may be horrible; if I'm at least able to try it, I promise I'll at least say more. And now for the finale.

Bob Rasta: A bit of a quiz. Or a puzzle. Or a something. Do you know this man? If not, you need to get on it. If so, you need to tell me. Immediately. I know a bit but not anywhere near enough. Got it? Great. Happy Holidays!

Happy Boxing Day Eve!

2010-12-25T20:59:00.003-05:00

(This is my new pet tiger, Chuck.)

(He was not a Christmas present.)

(Hopefully I'll be able to tell you a story about him soon.)

(Happy Boxing Day Eve!)

Boy / Girl

2010-12-18T20:24:00.001-05:00

I may have worn a pair of women's jeans today, all day.

This is the price -- or at least a price -- that one pays for being clever and hip and open-minded and shopping at thrift stores.

We've already addressed the rarefied sartorial heights that may be reached through secondhand clothing purchase. The dashing three-piece-suit-and-tie combo, already worn four or five times and immortalized no fewer than two. The show-stopping swimsuit, perhaps a bit blousy and perhaps a bit skirty, but an undeniable hit with the ladies (provided the term is used in its strictest biological sense) at the pool.

But today, the other, far-less-fortunate outcome of this high-stakes game of wardrobe roulette was on display. Not that women's pants can't be sexy. And possibly -- although I harbor grave doubts -- even when worn by men. It's just that they are categorically not sexy when worn by this one.

How do I know?

It's a sad, ugly tale. A sad, ugly tale that I only unleash from my Seemingly Infinite Vault of Cringe-Inducing Memories in the hopes of slightly easing the still-lingering shame.

It was 6th grade. I was looking to catch the attention of a particular blonde classmate. My mother, possibly out of benign absentmindedness, possibly out of something far more fiendish, encouraged me to try a pair of the "new" jeans she'd gotten me at Goodwill.

"But mom, they're red."

"So what?"

"So I've never seen any of the other guys wear red jeans."

"Sounds like the other guys aren't very stylish. Try them on."

"But--"

"Try them on."

...

"They look great."

"But--"

"Hurry up and get your jacket. You're going to miss the bus."

"But--"

"Hurry up and get your jacket."

At least that's how I remember the conversation going. It's possible, I'm sure, that my mind has rearranged things a bit to keep the memory from literally tearing a hole in its proverbial fabric.

Anyway, as it surely had to be, I wasn't on the bus for more than thirty seconds before a classmate asked why I was wearing girls' jeans. The classmate. The cute blonde one.

"Oh, they aren't girls' jeans."

"They're red."

"Yeah, but they're men's."

"No they aren't. Red jeans are for girls."

"No, no. These are a new style of red men's jeans."

"Katie wore a pair just like them on Tuesday."

...

"Maybe Katie was wearing men's jeans."

This went back and forth for a few minutes, until I'd impugned the fashion sense of nearly every female in the sixth grade and secured far too much of the worst kind of attention from my favorite one of them.

When the bus, finally, mercifully arrived at school, I marched as immediately (and masculinely) as possible to the nurse's office, told her I was feeling nauseous (the surest, no-proof-required way to get sent home), didn't talk to my mother the whole ride back, and buried the pants in the backest back corner of the closet until they were eventually re-donated to Goodwill.

Which brings us to today.

Or at least sets the stage for it.

Fortunately -- or otherwise -- there weren't any blonde classmates involved this time. No one to blame but myself, either. And the jeans were normal blue.

But the old, central dilemma remained. As is so often the case with secondhand clothing, there were no immediate, definitive markings that indicated whether the pants in question were intended for man or woman.

I looked them up and down, weighed the weightiness of the Goodwill employee's "Men's Large" notation on the $3.99 price tag, and tried unsuccessfully to google the SKU number.

I bought them -- obviously and of course -- and consulted with my little sister upon my return home. While she professed to be quite certain I'd made the right decision, that the jeans were indeed men's, there were a few factors weighing strongly against her proclamation.

First and most damningly, she's a clown. A total clown. She'd love nothing more than to exact a bit of revenge for my years of teasing by helping sneak me into a pair of women's pants. Err, without the woman, that is.

Second, she couldn't articulate a single decent reason for the certainty of her determination. She hadn't heard of the brand, she'd actually noted the button fly as looking "girly," and she'd strenuously opposed my excitement in finding the tiny "32" tag (American not European sizing!) and my interpretation of the "M. ________ label (for "Mr." or "Monseigneur,
of course!).

Finally, she was surreptitiously texting during the entire evaluation. Let's say the average human brain has a capacity of 100 units. And that the average meth addict's brain is about a 60. Then the average teenager's brain, while texting, is an 8. Maximum. Complete sentences are rare, complete ideas impossible. Coherent advice? I don't what yes goodbye.

So there it is.

I still don't know.

As I said, I wore the pants today, all day, and no one laughed or snickered or pointed out that Katie had recently worn something similar.

But still. I need to be sure. Or at least to try to. And this is why I'm providing the pictures below.

They've all been cropped, of course, so as to prevent my identity from being conclusively established in the event that the jeans' femininity is conclusively established. So have at it, internet. What do you think?

The straight-ahead and side-shots are encouraging, it seems, but perhaps misleadingly so. Dopey hipsters and wannabe dopey hipsters have made skinny jeans so ubiquitous that it's sometimes hard at a glance to tell the difference between jeans, jeggings, and double-leg tourniquets. How ridiculous would a pair of jeans have to look to seem inappropriate?

In fairness, these pants do fit pretty comfortably. If they were designed for a woman, it was for a M._______ sturdy one.

As you can see, the waist has been taken in -- a bad sign, almost without question -- but there are no waistband labels. The "girly" buttons are only implied.

Here's the "32" tag. I still maintain this is my greatest hope for man-pants validation, particularly since they were (allegedly) "Made in Italy."

The slightly more dubious "Mr. Monseigneur" label.

I have no opinion on which interpretation the "Classic Denim" / "Classic Boot Cut" tag most supports. I would like to note, however, that there sure are a lot of labels on these stupid things to not have one that says, you know, whether you'd mad at your mother for tricking you into wearing them.

A Brief Pictoral History of a Still-Secret Mission

2010-12-15T20:49:00.004-05:00

Okay, so where were we?

Ah, yes.

Here. The tiny, dirty, futuristic, deprivation-chamber-toilet-monster.

Except, as it turns out, it's actually a "tram" -- one of the eight or ten; my deprived senses can't remember exactly -- that one might ride to the top of The Gateway Arch in St. Louis.

Well, assuming one is white, middle-aged, overweight, and colossally dorky. Like, for instance, this wannabe-Elvis-impersonator who hogged the best window in the viewing platform, just staring out into the distance and farting every few minutes.

Have no fear, though, friends. Through sheer determination and a superhuman ability to disregard olfactory pain, I nevertheless managed a few excellent views from this actually quite remarkable landmark. And upon my exit, I captured an even better one, if I may be so bold.

After all this photography (and breath-holding), I found myself in dire need of refreshment. I headed in a GPS-aided-but-still-quite-roundabout fashion to a promising little barbecue restaurant that I'd just so happened to research in advance of my trip: Pappy's Smokehouse.

I could write an epic poem in tribute to Pappy's brisket, pulled pork, and fried corn on the cob -- the coleslaw, as it invariably is, was merely "eh" -- but I've got several dozen more pictures to caption, so I'll just keep it prose and simple.

Promise: fulfilled.

Upon leaving Pappy's, I found myself exceedingly full but still somehow in dire need of refreshment. Thus, I shimmied -- in a fashion reminiscent of The King himself -- over to Crazy Bowls and Wraps, a place I'd never have even thought to try but for the advice of a greatly-respected man of food and foodstuffs, a famous alum of the nearby Washington University.

In keeping with with a (slightly) reduced word count:

Respect: deserved.

At last fully refreshed, at least for the time being, I proceeded to indulge in one of the greatest pleasures about which a respectable man can write on a family website: A long walk through an unfamiliar city at night.

In this case, it was a several-mile stroll through the strikingly beautiful campus of the aforementioned Washington University.

Now, I'd known it was a splendid academic school, to be sure. I'd known it was famous for graduating men and women of unsurpassed moral character and food recommendation prowess. I just hadn't had even the slightest idea how architecturally gorgeous it was.

Eventually, however, the 50-below wind chill finally managed to erode even my own deranged enthusiasm for a great latewalk, so I repaired to my hotel room with a half-bottle of wine and a store-bought salad.

Let the record show that the explosive capitulation of the first disposable corkscrew was but a tiny speed bump in the endeavor, delaying my meal but the briefest of instants, and that the second attempt with a second corkscrew was a rousing success, duly cheered and applauded by the gentlemen at the hotel's front desk (who, on account of my driver's license, referred to me appropriately reverently for the duration of my stay as "The Beard Guy.")

A lack of silverware, slightly exacerbated by the expert extinguishing of the expertly opened wine, proved to be similarly overcomable.

And that, at least for now, is that.

Further details of the trip, including such items as its purpose and its results, may yet be divulged at some point in the future.

When might it be?

Who are we to say?

For now, a final photograph shall suffice.

[PS - If you just so happen to be one of my wonderfully dear St.-Louis-residing friends or family members, please don't feel the least bit slighted that I wasn't able to meet up with you this time. It was The Mission, you see. I still love you!]

We Have Liftoff

2010-12-08T00:08:00.001-05:00

Full report to follow.

The Cards. They're Here.

2010-12-03T14:38:00.004-05:00

Hello, lovely people.

So this year's Holiday Cards have allegedly almost arrived. Monday at the latest, according to UPS's entirely untrustworthy package tracker. And while I'll actually be out of town through Wednesday on a gravely-important mission into the American Heartland, I have the patience of an 8-year-old Little Hugs addict, so I've decided to just go ahead and make the announcement today anyway.

In keeping with the long-standing tradition established last year, the Holiday Cards 4.0 will be mailed out on a first-come, first-serve basis to anyone good enough to mail us a holiday card, while (our) supplies last.

(Your) supplies should kindly be directed to our corporate headquarters:

Blogonoscopy, Inc.
P.O. Box 12672
Pittsburgh, PA 15241

As always, please feel free -- encouraged, even -- to be creative in your interpretation of "holiday," "card," and "mail," but please feel neither free nor encouraged to be creative in your interpretation of federal shipping regulations. We don't want to end up on any (additional) terrorist watch lists.

Thank you kindly, and Happy Holidays!

Deck Your Own Halls

2010-12-02T13:10:00.004-05:00

I don't like Christmas carols. I don't care if that makes me a Grinch; your mom is a Grinch. And a Scrooge too.

I don't like Christmas carols. They're pushy and sappy and corny, and I don't much care for being pushed or sapped or corned. Especially when it's 11 degrees outside and the clouds are inventing new forms of matter for the sole purpose of spewing the water versions all over me.

So what do I like about this time of year, then, assuming there's anything at all?

Well, I think you know One Thing. But That's not quite ready to be officially discussed yet. Soon. Very soon.

The other thing I actually do like about this time of year, though, is the lights. But not the spazzy, blinky, melt-the-Ice-9-off-your-roof abominations. The regular old simple lights, elegant and classy. The white ones are great, and if I'm sticking with that awful "elegant and classy" line, they should probably be my favorite, but I am and they're not. I like the multicolored ones the best.

Should you have been on the receiving end of last year's One Thing, this should come as no large surprise.

I actually like the multicolored lights so much that, ever since my college days (when it was at least moderately acceptable and not too dreadfully tacky), I've tried to install them, indoors, in at least one room of wherever I've lived.

Now, just in time to raise my spirits for the creation of this year's One Thing, I've assembled my favorite (non-wearable) (and extra-tacky) display yet.

Behold, I give you: The Holiday Tr--

Wait. That's not quite right.

This is a year-round display, and is affiliated with no particular events or celebrations, with the delightful result that it may thus freely affiliate with all of them.

Behold, I give you: The Party Tree!

Classy and elegant, right?

Plus, if anyone starts singing "O Christmas Tree," I can beat them down with it.