Why? A few reasons.

Most importantly, I decided I needed some kind of ‘portfolio’ website to showcase all of my different projects and *cough* skills. A fresh start on clattertron.com meant I could also install ComicPress for the comics and have a blank canvas–danieljhogan.com has been retooled and changed so many times, it has all kinds of personality problems.

My blog here will be for general ‘what I am doing’ or ‘look at this cool thing’ type posts, and will be, as its title suggests, irregular. For those wanting additional semi-regular content, I suggest subscribing to my feeds for Ginger and the Geek, Geek Speak, The Idler, Lost Highway, and My’brary Adventure.

As much as I enjoy being silly and goofy online, I really needed a place where I could come across as semi-serious (or at least as serious as I can). Clattertron.com is my place to make jokes and be strange–my ‘tshirt and jeans’ site. Danieljhogan.com will serve as a hub, of sorts, and be my ‘suit and tie’ site.

Wait. I like this better: Danieljhogan.com is the front of the mullet. Clattertron is the back. Business in the front, party in the back, as the state motto goes (I forget which one).

I have separate feeds for all the nonsense on Clattertron. I also set up a Tumblr feed for the comics. The comic will update on Monday, at least. I would like to get to maybe two comics a week eventually (baby steps).

And while the comic stuff is pretty much set, I am still organizing the blog side. I am enjoying drawing comics again, and it makes for a fun non-digital creative outlet (at least until I scan the drawings, then all bets are off).

Plus, now I can draw comics about people not liking Mondays. My Internet Guru assured me no one has touched on this topic.

Still, I am always amused when I am asked to speak to groups (Girl Scout troops, grade school students, Lansing Bronies Meetups). Such an occurrence, as rare as they are, happened earlier this month. Old Pal Jeanne² (OPJ), asked if I would be willing to chat with her writing group. OPJ is a librarian in metro Detroit.

After I finished laughing, I said sure. Because, if’n there is one thing I love, it is the sound of my own voice.

“Do you want to come here?” she asked. “Otherwise, we could try Skype.”

“Skpe would be better,” I said. “I try to limit my drives to Detroit from November through March. Snow is a harsh mistress.”³

“Do you have a webcam?”

I paused. The video side of Skpe had not crossed my mind, as I only ever used the service for audio (and to join Mysterious Cities of Gold chat groups, obviously). But then the sci-fi geek in me perked up, “Hey! It’ll be like Star Trek! Or like those video phones in Viper!”†

I agreed, and the date was set.

OPJ’s writing group started as a National Novel Writing Month support group, so I had plenty to chat about. My self-published novel, The Magic of Eyri, began as a NaNoWriMo project. I shared my experiences with self-publishing and, to my surprise, I was able to keep the swearing to a minimum.

It was odd addressing a room of people in such a way. While there was about a dozen, give or take, in attendance, OPJ’s camera was limited in its coverage. But, I am very much accustomed to talking, at length, without seeing who (if anyone) is listening. The upside to podcasting, I guess.

I had to make sure the parts of my apartment visible to my webcam were tidy. I was sad to dispose of my mountain of Clif Bar wrappers, but out of context it would look rather bad (I was going to make some kind of mosaic, but who has the time?). I had thoughts of placing props in the background to impress the group (copies of Hamlet, The Iliad, and Plato’s Republic; a globe, my third-place high school bowling trophy), but I ended up playing Civilization III for too long and ran out of time.

There were also more important logistical problems, mainly: Which geeky t-shirt do I wear? (answer: This One)

The chat itself was a lot of fun, and I would be happy to do so again. In a text message after the finale, OPJ said, “They loved you!”

And the best part about a Skype chat? No one can tell if you are wearing pants.

–
¹ Or rather, ‘the thinks he is funny one.’

² Name changed.

³ And then we ended up having a super-hot March. It was about 80 degrees (F) on St. Patrick’s Day Weekend. Insane!

† It was like Knight Rider, but with a Dodge Viper. And it couldn’t talk. Which was the show’s greatest failing, after starring a Dodge Viper.

I start teaching a blogging class tonight, and the phrase applies to me in a round-about-way. Nothing is keeping me from blogging, I have been writing online (in various forms) since the early 2000s. Being paid to blog, however, has been quite the white whale/unicorn/Chinese Democracy. While I don’t paid to blog,² I do get asked to write for other websites, which has plenty of its own value—a quick thank you to The Idler, Lost Highway, TEDx Lansing, CiesaDesign, Elder Signs Press, Cinema Soldier, as well as Capital Area District Library and Capital City Film Festival (both coming soon).

This is where the class comes in. While I do not get paid to blog (unless you count the 2.3 cents I earned in Google Ads last year), I do get paid to teach a class on blogging. The class in question (hello students!) is for the Michigan State University Alumni Association’s Evening College. Got all that? It is a non-credit, continuing education course. I don’t give out grades or tests, but I do have homework (“Go home and watch Firefly. Then write an angry blog post about it being canceled.”)

Tonight marks my second semester teaching, with the biggest change being a switch from four sessions to six. My lesson plan is pretty much the same, just spread out a bit more. During my first semester, a friend teased me with, “So, you teach people how to type?”

Funny, but not quite. While I teach some basic blogging stuff (with social media thrown in), using WordPress.com is the focus of the class. WordPress is a powerful bit of software, and it has a bit of a learning curve for the uninitiated.

What I enjoy the most about teaching is it is, to use the zoo term, an enrichment exercise. Talking to a room full of adults for two hours once a week, for six weeks, is quite the shake-up to my routine. I usually spend my Monday evenings being terrible at board games. I am sure I will have some stories to tell after six weeks, which will make it back here—and it all comes full circle.

Also, the best part about teaching again is I had an excuse to buy a laser pointer.³ ZAP!

–
¹ Or in my case, “Those who shouldn’t, teach.”

²  I am paid to write freelance articles, like those for Capital Gains, which I consider different than blogging. Still, online writing is online writing, in that any experience writing for others is good, paid or not.

³ I mentioned this to Stephanie, and she said, “You don’t already have one? What kind of a geek are you?”

"No blood for bricks!"

Settlers of Catan is unique, in that it is perhaps the only scenario in which sheep can cause a divide amongst friends. Well. Except for shepherds arguing over herds, I guess. Settlers is a game I play with my gaming group, which consists of Ken, Francis, and Benedict.¹

A couple weeks ago, we dusted off Settlers of Catan for our first game in far too long.

For those unfamiliar, Settlers of Catan is a ‘resource management’ board game. It has probably won about as many awards as Adam Oates has assists² give or take. You vie for control of an island, building settlements and roads where you can. Each tile making up the island has a different resource (brick, grain, ore, wood, sheep), which are used to build your improvements. Number chips are placed on the resources, and the ‘goods’ are handed out based on corresponding die rolls on every turn.

No two games of Settlers are the same, because the arrangement of tiles is random. Trading resources between players is encouraged, but not required. Relationships can make or break you in Settlers, and can range from friendly trade agreements to Gunboat Diplomacy. While you don’t ‘attack’ your fellow players like you do in Risk, you can put the squeeze on in a few ways.

One such way is the Thief token, which gets moved when a player rolls a seven (or via a purchased soldier card). Placing the Thief token on a tile prevents the owner from gaining any resources when the tile’s number is rolled (and you get to steal a card at random from the title’s owner).

Within our group, you must exercise caution when deploying the Thief, because Ken and I have long memories. In some cases, it can stretch back a few games.

Several turns into our recent game, I sat with a handful of useless sheep cards, as the Thief grew fat on my brick tile, and hindered the growth of my empire. Ken, who had suffered the Thief’s wrath a few turns prior, vetoed a trade offer from Francis. “I don’t think so.”

Francis said, “Why? I’ll give you two grain for a brick.” He was trying to complete a settlement.

Ken glared at Francis over the top of his cards, “Well, maybe if someone hadn’t stopped my brick production, I might have more to trade.”

Francis glanced my way, “Not gonna happen,” I said. Francis grumbled and ended his turn.

Benedict rolled, and surprise, I gained more sheep. “Building two roads,” Benedict said, as he took the Longest Road point bonus from me. He was now two points ahead, and I was two behind. I was going to lose before the game really even started.

My turn began with a lackluster roll which only helped everyone else. I studied my hand, and huffed, “Anybody need sheep?”

Across from me, three heads shook in unison. I scared Ken’s cat out of the room with a loud curse. As I handed over the dice, I remembered why it had been so long since we last played.

–
¹ names changed.
² Hockey humor. Dude had over 1,000 career assists.

And this isn't the first time this has happened. Image via TSN and © Jamie Sabau/Getty Images)

This is the perk to sitting around on the Saturday before the NHL Trade Deadline and hitting Refresh on TSN and Yahoo! Sports every twenty-three seconds.

Wow.

The amusing part, aside from the headline, is I recall this same thing happening on another website this season–I think it was NHL.com. The headline in the previous scenario was altered.

I wonder how long until the same thing happens on..oh…

Strike that, reverse it. Or change it. Whatever. Image via TSN, © Jamie Sabau/Getty Images)

I wasn’t even done typing this post yet, and it was changed.

For those who don’t get the joke.

Oh boy. AIM? Original images © original sources. Apologies to Nintendo.

I wrote a weekly fantasy hockey column for Illegal Curve a few years ago.² I even posed with a hockey stick for my Geek the Library photos to help promote the Capital Area District Library.

Car crashes have increased 500% in downtown Lansing.

I pulled a bit of a ‘Paul is dead’ gag here—I am really a right handed shot.

Being a hockey fan is great these days, thanks to the Internet. Since the NHL is still considered a fringe sport by most (especially in the land of the Spartans), the Internet helps fill in the gaps.

Blogs like Puck Daddy,³ and social media tools like Twitter are a boon for hockey fans. One of my favorite moments of this season was finding out about Mike Cammalleri being traded MID-GAME on Twitter. With the NHL Trade Deadline only a few days away, I am constantly refreshing Twitter, to the point where I have to recharge my phone four times a day (the Jeff Carter/Jack Johnson trade went down while writing this post).

Thanks to my new iPod, I have been listening to the daily hockey podcast, Marek vs. Wyshynski. I love every second, and it helps me ignore people asking me for money during my walk to work.†

I wish hockey podcasts existed while I was in high school. I would have had something else besides Metallica to listen to while I played NHL ‘98.

Speaking of high school, in the Old Days, if a Red Wings game went late, the newspaper had a phone number to call to listen to a voice-mail with the final score. Yep, if the Red Wings played San Jose the night before, that meant I would be calling for the final score the next morning (after reading the comics page in the paper. Priorities).

That feels like the Dark Ages compared to now.

An anecdote about voice-mail and hockey: I went to Spain during the 2000 NHL playoffs, and I knew my chances of finding out the score of a Wings game were slim. Borrowing the idea from the newspaper, I asked my parents to update their voice-mail greeting with the latest results.

I’m in Madrid, using a hotel lobby phone booth to call home. I dial my calling card’s two-thousand digit code, and wait. The voice mail clicks on and I hear Mom’s voice:

Hi, you have reached the Hogans. We can’t come to the phone right now, so please leave a message. Daniel, the Red Wings beat the Kings 8 to 5 last night, and are up 2-0 in the series.

Today, I can see a game’s final score, read a blog about the game, check Twitter chatter about the game, and watch video highlights—all on my phone.

Technology! It is for more than just kitten photos.™
–
¹ My show was a bit of a novelty, since there were not any other sports talk shows on the college radio station at the time. The school paper even did a story on me. The perks of going to a school with a student body population of about 37.

When I started at the station, it was as bare bones as could be. Four years later, we had Internet streaming, which was A BIG DEAL, since most folks on campus couldn’t get the AM signal. The hockey show was for only one year, but during the rest of my time, I had other shows. They were also terrible. Fun, but terrible. Kinda funny that years later, I am still doing the talk show thing.

² Which was a fun gig, and is the reason I developed a hunger for news about the league as a whole, instead of just the Red Wings.

³ I have tried many times to find a Red Wings blog I enjoy, but I have not had much luck. I’m picky, and I don’t like reading about how great the Wings are in every post. I like a bit of objectivity when it comes to hockey coverage.

† I wear an overcoat with two missing buttons, and a $40 suit. Asking me for fifty cents is a waste of time.

Ask Google a simple question, and get an answer about Skyrim.

Oh, Google.

I am sad to say, I was not looking for information about the video game Skyrim (but I have heard it has dragons. I approve). I needed information for a joke in a previous blog post. As I typed in ‘Can you dance to 7/4 time?’¹ I noticed the, ahem, amusing suggestions you see above.

If you think about it, all of these suggested results could be related. The first result for ‘can you run it’ is a site which tells you if your machine can run a specific video game (including Skyrim). Queries two and three are about Skyrim directly, and we all know Can You Feel the Love Tonight should be sang at every wedding (or perhaps while playing Skyrim).

Google–is there anything it can’t do?

–
¹ Which I ended up not using.

Such a time happened at a recent ballroom dancing class (See Previously). After learning our steps for the week, the teacher played some swinging big band music. I led, and began counting aloud, which is the only way I can pull off ballroom dancing.¹

Then, the singer crooned:

I feel stupid and contagious/
Here we are now, entertain us/

My right foot swung like a rusty pendulum, and hit Stephanie square in the shin. “Ow! Pay attention,” she said.

“Is this…” I mumbled aloud, sweat poured down my brow as if hearing some arcane spell oozing from the mouth of a cultist. “Is this…no, it can’t be…”

The singer continued with an upbeat,

A mulatto/
An albino/
A mosquito/
My libido/
Yeah!

My brain locked its wheels, hit the wall at 200 MPH, and my face contorted: “IS THIS A BIG BAND COVER OF SMELLS LIKE TEEN SPIRIT?!”

Stephanie, a member of MENSA, was immune to the confusing cover. “What?”

I leaned in close, my eyes wild like the protagonist in an H. P. Lovecraft story, and not-quite-whispered, “This. Is. A. Big. Band. Cover. Of. Smells. Like. Teen. Spirit.”

Stephanie, bless her, was more concerned with my feet trampling her own. As my brain tried to jumpstart itself, she took over leading. 1-2-3, “Snap out of it,” she said. Slow, slow, quick, quick. “And pay attention.” She glanced down at her bruised shins and leaned me against the mirror covered wall. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath as she rubbed her feet and shins.

A cover of a Nirvana song was the last thing I expected at our ballroom dancing class. Actually, that is not quite true. The NEXT song was:

Oh, can’t you see me standing here?
I’ve got my back against the record machine/
I ain’t the worst that you’ve seen/
Oh, can’t you see what I mean?

I croaked. “Oh…no…”

Ah, I might as well jump. Jump!
Might as well jump.
Go ahead, jump. Jump!
Go ahead, jump. Jump!

My bones melted and I flailed like a rag doll in the wind. Stephanie shook her head and propped me up once again. “Now what?”

The letters built up on my lips, but like some eldritch horror, I dared not speak the name. Stephanie’s concerned eyes convinced me otherwise. “Va…Van…Halen.”²

“What about them?”

“This is a cover of…Jump.” I became a puddle on the floor, not unlike Lewis at the end of RoboCop, “Murphy…I’m a mess.”

This week’s class was sans wacky covers, but we did get to ballroom dance to the original version of The Power of Love from Back to the Future, so it all evened out, and I didn’t screw up nearly as much.

–
¹ I have to do the same thing when figuring out a tip on a check. Good thing I have eleven toes.

² Their first album is one of my all time favorites, and I own most of the Roth-era albums, including 1984.

³ He is older than I, and was around when the song was a hit. I wasn’t even three years old at the time.

A few Halloweens ago, I became inspired to go as a Ghostbuster. And why not? I wanted to be something iconic, especially after the previous year’s ‘steampunk Mr. Belvedere’ costume went over like a clockwork lead balloon.¹

Since there was no way I was going to pay $30-$40 for a cheesy, store-bought Ghostbusters costume with an inflatable Proton Pack, I decided to make my own. Because that made sense, and it was, according to the voices in my head, What Batman Would Do.²

There was a clear divide in my social circle upon my announcing this project: those who thought I was clever and creative, and those who thought I had finally snapped and was stampeding into Don Quixote territory. With the benefit of hind sight, I can say they were both a bit correct.

Lots of photos ahead, so the adventure continues behind the cut.

First, I had to come up with a design. I spent a lot of time reading websites about how to make your own Proton Pack. But, many of the sites focused on creating spot-on replicas of the film version—which required time, money, and materials I didn’t have.

So, like Christmas, birthdays, and Uncle Lou’s hip-replacement surgery, I approached this project as a cheapskate, albeit a motivated one. I visited most of the second-hand shops and couch cushions around town, looking for items or gear I could MacGyverize, and when I had to, I bought something new (usually from discount stores, or clearance bins).

The Pack

I needed a way to carrying this thing on my back, so my first idea was to cut the ‘pack’ part off a backpack.

A co-worker gave me a set of blinking LEDs left over from a LEGO set, which I used to light up the bottom, and the middle.

In the movie version of the Pack, there is a ‘bumper’ over the bottom part. I made my own using parts of old wrist guards and tubing.

I wanted the gun to light up, so a cheap flashlight was on my list (it doubled as a handle, too). I cut up a water-jug, and attached part of a turkey baster to finish the look.

One of the extra pipe pieces from the goggles (see blow), make a perfect ‘muzzle.’ I cut the handle off a plastic baseball bat to be the front ‘grip.’

For the goggles Ray wears, I found instructions online (there are many).

While the whole process was long, the end result was worth the late nights and strange looks from my friends and family.

Besides, it meant I could recreate one of the greatest scenes in cinematic history:

Don't try this at home. In fact, never try anything on this blog at home.

You can see (too) many more photos over on Flickr.

–
¹ Which is the same as a regular Mr. Belvedere costume, with the addition of brass goggles and a top hat.

² Bruce Wayne, however, would have just bought the movie studio and used the original film props and costume.

I really enjoy when I am challenged, to some extent, to lay on the stupid. This is where Fiction 440 comes in. It is a Lansing based group, which challenges folks to write a flash fiction story of no more than 440 words. The stories usually have to contain certain words or feature a theme.

Tonight is the 10th edition of this event (at Soup Spoon Cafe), and the stories had to include the words Score, Sack, and Fumble.

Now, Fiction 440 doesn’t require your stories to be stupid or silly, but that is just what I go for. These stories are read aloud at places which serve booze, so with that in mind, I try to make my stories as ridiculous as possible (here is my first submission, Party Pooper).

My entry for tonight’s event, A Good Day, is below. It has ‘space Vikings.’¹ Yes. I have a feeling I will not be asked to attend the next event. I also wrote this in about 20-30 minutes, and went right up to the midnight deadline, so if there are any grammar or smelling errors, that’s why. Which is fine. Sometimes you just need to take a Devil May Care approach to writing and crank something out, space Vikings or not.

Erik stood on the bridge of his dragon head spacecruiser and watched the chaos on the view-screen. Lasers flashed outside. Ships exploded. Men died. It would be a good day.

Erik hurled his mug of space-mead to the floor, “To battle.” The crew cheered as the spacecruiser broke its orbit and screamed for the planet’s surface. The Pantheran laser satellites were only a threat above the planet. Erik’s brother Lorn, expecting an easy sack, ignored the satellites and approached Panthera at maximum speed. His charred, lifeless ship floated in the starry ship-graveyard above the planet.

Erik gripped the handle of his laser-axe, Veinbiter, as the ship entered Panthera’s atmosphere. The time to mourn his brother would come later. Now, there was only time for one thing: battle. Erik snapped on his stained, purple helmet as the helmsman counted the seconds until touchdown. Each of his helmet’s dents and scratches told a story.

The dragon head ship burst through a bank of orange Pantheran clouds like a nightmare. The Pantherans who were not in awe, ran, as the wedge-shaped ship landed and shook the ground. Erik was the first off the ship, and whirled Veinbiter over his head. A pair of Pantheran warriors roared and flashed their yellowed, dagger-like canines. They lunged for Erik, but Veinbiter was faster and tore their silver flesh. Blue blood sprayed and pooled at Erik’s feet.

Two. A good start, Erik thought, but far from evening the score of his lost brother. Lorn’s brawn and blade would be missed, but Erik looked at the upside: it meant more Pantherans for him.

Another pair of Pantherans felt Veinbiter’s kiss and joined their brothers on the ground. Four. A decent effort, for an ill man, as Lorn would have said. Another swing of Veinbiter, and a head sailed several yards. Five.

Erik threw his shoulder into a Pantheran making a feast of one of his men, and they exchanged blows. Erik’s helmet had a new story, and his tally went up to six.

A thunderous roar cleared a space around Erik. An eight foot tall Pantheran warrior with a flowing silver mane, roared again and ran for him. Its clawed feet tore up the shimmering green grass, and its silver tail whipped about with every step. Erik pulled a detonator from his utility belt and hurled it at the stampeding beast. The Pantheran fumbled with the detonator as its curved handle became entangled in its mane.

A flash. An explosion. Seven. Under his helmet, Erik smiled. Today would be a good day, indeed.

–
¹ While it does not take place in space, I highly recommend the Viking novel, The Long Ships. Its influence on this story cannot be stressed enough. Here are a couple of other flash fiction pieces inspired by the book. One . Two. They are equally ridiculous.

One would think, given the vast musical talent on Mom’s side of the family (the Sicilians), I would at least be a passable dancer. Not really. My skill set leans more towards the sarcasm, BS-ing, and a quick wit of Dad’s side of the family (the Irish).

However, Mom’s bloodline did gift me a basic knowledge of rhythm, which I discovered when I took up drums a few years ago. Other gifts include: talking with my hands like nobody’s business and making cannoli disappear.

Stephanie and I signed up for a ballroom dancing class and I was, in a word, terrified. Not because of the chance of seeing paramedics on a weekly basis. No, something worse: I might have to buy a new pair of shoes.

“Do you have dancing shoes?” Stephanie asked as she read an email from the class instructor on her smart phone.

Clad in a Speed Racer T-shirt, ripped jeans, and clearance rack sneakers I said, “Do I look like the kind of person who owns dancing shoes?”

She rolled her eyes and rephrased the question, “Do you have any shoes besides sneakers?”

“I have a pair of cowboy boots.” Her eyes slowly drifted above the top edge of her smart phone, “Why do you have cowboy boots?”

“For my Fistful of Dollars Halloween costume.” Duh.

Stephanie shook her head. She hinted I could buy a pair of shoes for the class. “I’m not buying a new pair of shoes just for a class,” I said.

With her best Clair Huxtable stare, she said, “But you’ll buy a pair of cowboy boots for a Halloween costume?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I can’t wear a gun belt and spurs with sneakers. That’s just silly.” Another laser stare. “And they were like $5 on eBay.”

After spending some serious time surveying my three pairs of shoes, I decided on my retro-sneakers with most of the tread worn off. The smooth soles resembled racing slicks, and would hopefully make me as slippery as Pavel Datsyuk in an oil spill.²

Movies taught me that our dance teacher would either be a chain-smoking, gruff-voiced woman who’s best years ended with the Nixon Administration, or a wire-thin, super-strict cane wielding woman with a thick German and/or Russian accent.

Nope. Our instructor was young, perky, and never threatened to hit me with a cane. Once again, the moving pictures failed me.³

After our first instructions, Stephanie and I took a stab at a waltz. “Mr. Hogan,” she said with a smile, “You can count to three.”

My left foot slid forward, more or less with the beat, “I used to play drums. I can count up to four if needed.”

She smiled to her fullest, and so did I: no one had called the paramedics.

—
¹ Which is a shame, as I enjoy an open bar and extra dinner rolls as much as the next cheap skate.

² Hockey Humor, Attempted.

³ Like how Star Wars had me think all bearded old guys in robes go around dispensing wisdom and lightsabers. Well, they don’t. At least not outside the bus station.

My younger sister still holds a grudge against me for beating her at Monopoly in our youth. Yes, I was cheating, but it was her own fault for not paying attention. We both learned valuable lessons: she learned to never trust a banker,¹ and I learned just how hard a ten year old girl can punch.

Decades later, my sister still brings this one game up, and is hesitant to play most games with me.

I witnessed another anger inciting game this weekend, while playing the Civilization board game (based on the video game) with my friends, Ken and Francis.²

Francis is quite taken with board games, and has the stacks of boxes to prove it. And when I say board games, I don’t mean Monopoly, Life, or Sorry. I am talking about “hobby” board games, such as Settlers of Catan, Dominion, and the aforementioned Civilization (to name only a few).

I partake in a weekly Game Night with the pair (and others), and depending on the game, we will either be laughing all night, or looking for the nearest heavy object to hurl.

The latter was the case with Civilization on Sunday afternoon. It nearly came to blows.

I was Egypt,³ Ken was China, and Francis was Russia. The board was laid out in a sort of Christmas tree shape, with Ken and Francis on either side of the ‘base’ and myself far away at the ‘top.’

Ken and Francis’ proximity to each other (only two square ‘land’ tiles separated them) resulted in a crash course with wackiness. By which I mean, Francis went after Ken like a junkyard dog.

Ken was content to focus on culture and creating a peaceful civilization, while Francis went the opposite way: War. Ken, bless him, took the assaults as personal.

“I just want to build libraries!” Ken yelled as his troops were crushed under Francis’ iron heel. Ken threw up his hands and resorted to a weapon of his own: Passive Aggressiveness. “I can see you don’t care about culture or libraries. The arts clearly aren’t important to your people. All you care about is grunting and swords!”

Francis cleared Ken’s pieces off the board, “Dude, it’s just a game.”

Ken jabbed a finger toward my empire, “I don’t see you going after Dan at all, and he’s winning!”

Francis shrugged, “You’re closer.”

There was a loud scrape as Ken pushed his chair away from the table and got to his feet, “We are a peaceful people! We have libraries! You don’t even have writing!”

Later on, I emailed another friend, Glenn, about the near-brawl. His only response was, “Who the [expletive] plays Civilization just to build libraries?”

Indeed.

–
¹ Summed up best in this hymn by Mojo Nixon.

² Names changed, same goes for Glenn.

³ Egypt is so Over Powered (OP to use the gaming vernacular), that I ran away with the game. I had three Wonders of the World, gunpowder, rifle carrying cavalry, and steam power, while the others barely had irrigation. When/if we play again, we decided Egypt cannot be used.

My collection of video game T-shirts says all one needs to know about my fashion skills (to the point where I had to seek the help of a Fixer). Heck, that night I ended up wearing navy blue socks with my black shoes and forgot a belt (mostly by mistake). The variety of ‘appropriate’ dress at Swan Lake was nothing short of entertaining. Some women wore elegant evening dresses, while others wore skirts shorter than their winter coats (to the point Stephanie thought one young lady was wearing only a coat). Another young lady sported a tutu of her own, likely in hopes of being called on stage to fill in if Odette pulled a Keith Moon.

A favorite was a stoic gentleman in a T-shirt and suspenders, who’s belly cascaded over his jeans as it tried to make a break for the exit. I needed these bits of observational mirth after the tense drive through the snow, which left me as mentally stable as Brad Pitt in Twelve Monkeys.

It took nearly an hour to get from downtown to the show. Such a trip should, on a good day, take no more than twenty minutes or so (ten if I am listening to the Drive soundtrack. Three and a half if my radio gets stuck on conservative talk radio). It was my first Screw This I am Moving to a State Without Snow drive of Winter. It happens every year.

Additional mirth came when we overheard a passerby critiquing the range of footwear worn by the intrepid staff of the venue, “Do they even have a dress code? One is wearing dress shoes, and another is wearing Chucks¹. This isn’t Point Break Live—we’re here to see the Moscow [Expletive] Ballet.” Indeed.

Speaking of, if you ever get a chance to see Point Break Live!, do so. It is Swan Lake for our Modern Times. With beer, fake blood and Gary Busey impressions².

And the people watching at Point Break Live! when I saw it in San Francisco? EVEN better.

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¹ Chuck Taylor Converse All-Stars.

² “Utah! Bring me two!”

There is one problem, Pop Culture has pretty much ruined Swan Lake for me. The ballet has been featured or referenced in many TV shows and films (a favorite being, Brain Donors). However, it is the frequent use of Swan Lake in popular media which makes me want to see the original. Compare and contrast, as they say, and it is always a good idea to become familiar with the source material–and is why I often consider reading Twilight: so I can make more accurate jokes, and better enjoy the ones already made.

Swan Lake is not the only classic¹ dulled by Pop Culture. I recently (and finally) watched all of Gone with the Wind. I was already familiar with the famous lines, and scenes (“I don’t give a damn,” etc.) via the many references over the years, but, when seen in context they made MUCH more sense, and had more weight. When Rhett delivered his famous line in the waning minutes of the film, it hit like a truck—now I knew why he said he didn’t give a damn.

The same can be said when I watched Citizen Kane for the first time in my youth: I finally got a lot of jokes and references—ranging from The Simpsons to Tiny Toon Adventures.

Is it wrong that Pop Culture “ruins” works like Swan Lake or Gone With the Wind? No. I would probably A) not know about Swan Lake or B) not want to see it, if it weren’t for it being referenced over the decades. Jokes about, and references to, classic works keep them alive and at the front of our memory—kind of like what Barb Wire did for Casablanca.

Well. Let’s skip that example.

Honestly, I am just happy for an excuse to leave the house². I turn in to a bit of a hermit while the Snow Miser stalks the Michigan countryside during our nine months of “good sledding.”

I just hope the stage version of Swan Lake is less creepy than the last incarnation I saw.

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¹ To be clear: I am not lumping Twilight in with Swan Lake, Gone With the Wind and Citizen Kane.

² By which I mean “apartment” and not “my parents’ basement.”

Stephanie was over, as she sought a distraction-free zone to fill out some paperwork. Like the villain with the golden grail at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, her choice of my apartment was a poor one.

“Do you want a copy of Maxim featuring Lara Flynn Boyle?” I held up the magazine in question.  Ms. Boyle was, of course, scantily clad and flashing a smoldering pout.

Stephanie halted the assault on the ream of forms requiring signatures in triplicate. “What? She hasn’t been relevant since 1999.” Her pen resumed its work. The dotting of her ‘i’s tapped out a loud SOS.

I inspected the cover. The date read, December 1999.

The rest of the box contained more Maxim back issues, and they served as a time capsule from my final high school years. I decided to keep the Flynn Boyle Maxim, ¹ not because of the pictures, but rather because of the interview with NHL tough guy, and former Detroit Red Wing, the late Bob Probert.²

The rest, however, were put in the Recycle pile with issues of Game Informer and Nintendo Power.³ These magazines summed up my high school years: hormones, sarcastic humor and video games. †

The real gems, however, were to be found in a binder full of my high school era writings. “Oh boy, my screenplay,” I said.

Stephanie made the pen-equivalent of a record scratch.  “WHAT?”

I held up the beat up red binder, stuff with a thousand sheets of loose leaf paper, of which about twenty featured my hieroglyphic writing. I flipped through a few pages, “Well, screenplays, to be exact. Handwritten, even.”

Stephanie’s eyes narrowed, as she calculated how long it would take her to reach the door. “What are they about?”

I read the summary for the first screenplay, Summertime Blues. Two recent high school grads go on one last road trip before starting college. Stephanie shook her head, “I feel like that has been made a million times already.” Then I read the character descriptions. Stephanie raised her hand halfway through the description Fred “Fatty” McStew, the chubby sidekick. “If his parents are Scottish immigrants, and he was born in Michigan, why does he have a Scottish accent?”

“Probably because I saw Rushmore the week before writing this.” Summertime Blues lasted about five pages or so. Then, my second attempt at a screenplay began. “’Workin’ the Stand,’” I read aloud. “This was based on my job working a concession stand at a movie theater,” I flipped through a few pages. “And apparently, my attempt at a Kevin Smith movie.” What I had written was pretty much Clerks in a movie theater. Highlights include a running gag about Snow Caps and filling napkin dispensers with napkins stolen from the donut shop next door, ‘Jim Gordon’s’ (a Batman AND a Tim Hortons joke in one? Gold!).

Rounding out the rest of my high school oeuvre, were (too) many dark, terrible poems I must have wrote after A) Listening to the Misfits for six hours straight, B) Banging my head against the wall, or C) Both.

Ah, Youth.

(I still happily listen to the Misfits, because according to the cover of my binder, they rule)

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¹ I also set aside the infamous issue in which Melissa Joan Hart posed (clothed), because…well. I don’t have a defense for this one.

² I went to Steve Yzerman’s retirement ceremony, and when Bob Probert walked out on to the ice, Joe Louis Arena SHOOK with cheering and applause.

³ I did keep my Nintendo Power issues from the ‘80s. If’n I need to know how to beat Dragon Warrior or Megaman 2, I know where to look.

† OK, my twenties as well. And thus far, my early thirties.

A couple Saturdays back, I had just finished an overpriced, under-French Toast’d² breakfast, when I decided to check Twitter on my phone (sort of an after meal mint for the 21st Century). I saw a tweet from a friend asking for help—she had a flat tire, and required assistance putting on the spare.

Thanks to a quick exchange of tweets and a peek at my Maps app, I learned Rachel was less than a mile away–well within walking distance. Like a 21st Century Dudley Do-Right (both in spirit and in abilities), I was off to lend a hand.

I had just finished reading The Lost City of Z, which was about the famous (and missing) explorer Percy Fawcett and his search for a lost city in the Amazon. The book was filled with stories about explorers in the early part of the 20th Century, and I figured if these folks could handle exploring the jungles of the world, I could certainly walk 0.7 miles to help out a friend.

Let’s rewind a bit: via my “phone,” I was able to see a friend needed help, get a fix on her location, see how far away she was on a map of the city and get walking directions. If need be, I bet I could have found directions, or a video, on how to change a tire too (but fear not, I have Experience).

About nine minutes later (I walk fast), I found Rachel and got to work. A neighbor noticed our plight and offered us the use of his hydraulic jack. He was a charming fellow, who used profanity as one would a punctuation mark³. Needless to say, we got along famously.

With the tire fixed, Rachel gave my dirty hands and I a ride home. I hadn’t discovered a lost city, or even a lost shopping mall, but I still had quite the adventure—all thanks to Twitter and my smart phone.

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¹ Just like this blog.

² The breakfast in question came with two slices of French toast and four slices of regular toast. How about we split the difference? Four slices of French toast and call it good.

³ Lewis Black has a great joke about this sort of thing.

After signing up, I saw they had my novel, The Magic of Eyri, listed, and that if I was the author, I could apply for Author Status. Why not? After a couple mouse clicks and a short email, I was given the title of Goodreads Author a few days later (despite my novel being self-published, but hey, take the wins where you can, right?).

Now that I am a Goodreads Author, folks can become “a fan” (which is probably only a few pegs lower than joining the Mr. Belvedere fan club¹). Neat.

I found a few friends of mine on Goodreads and added them, because it is What You Do, and I saw an alert that one of my friends, John, was now “a fan”². I popped over to his page, and I was listed with some of his other Favorite Authors in the sidebar, which gave me a chuckle.

I should see if they want to collaborate on a book. And then I woke up.

I didn’t expect to be listed alongside big names like Orson Scott Card and George R. R. Martin anytime soon, except perhaps as a punchline.

Joking aside³, I know I do have fans of Magic of Eyri† and the other nonsense I churn out, and when I have been lucky enough to meet them in person, I am always grateful. If you have 10 fans, or ten thousand, each one is a win–and take them where you can.

Except Spambots on Twitter. Those don’t count.

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¹ FACT: I was a member back in the day. I have the stickers and the T-shirt somewhere. This is not a reference to the SNL skit.

² In all honesty, John has been one of my biggest fans and supporters since the book came out in 2007. I don’t forget stuff like that. Same goes for my Magic of Eyri co-star, Robin.

³ I’m a fan of Ender’s Game, and I want to read the Game of Thrones  series at some point (and watch the show–c’mon, Netflix). I have played the game though, but before the show came out.

† I have been very lucky to meet a few fans at conventions, and some have even emailed me–mainly when the Magic of Eyri podcast was on hiatus. That kind of stuff keeps me going.

I tried to think about what would cause some poor soul to cast aside a single crutch, and on a highway on-ramp of all places. “Perhaps someone tied it to the roof rack, and it fell off,” I thought at first, but then I remembered such a fate is usually reserved for the likes of R2-D2, Granny and Irish Setters.

Then it came to me. Someone was hitchhiking, and they were picked up by a biker. Yes. What else could it be? More importantly, the hitchhiker in question HAD to be Tiny Tim.²

I envisioned Tiny Tim joining a biker gang, clawing and stabbing his way through the ranks over the years. He became the new leader after a whiskey-soaked game of chicken on Brockway Mountain Drive, against a lightning kissed, midnight sky. He was tough, but fair, and an artist with a switchblade. He gave no quarter and asked for none himself. His voice was the roar of an engine, or the blast of a sawed off shotgun. Tiny Tim no longer needed a crutch, because now he sat tall in the saddle of a steel horse. In time, he united all the Michigan biker gangs into the great wheeled tribe of the North.

Or, the crutch just fell out of the back of a medical supply van.

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¹ My hands wet on the wheel, etc.
² Because no one else only uses a single crutch.

I thought about this over a room temperature chicken pot pie at a restaurant last month. It was the day after Christmas, and I was unwinding after the usual holiday-insanity, which had me visit eight different locations between Eaton Rapids and Detroit in 48 hours. I was spent like an unpaid intern during the New Hampshire primary.

Which brought me to the restaurant and the less than hot chicken pot pie. I figured a hearty lunch would help recharge the batteries. As would be expected on Dec. 26th, the place was a ghost town, and it was closing in about an hour. I was one of only three patrons. This caused the staff behind the counter, a man and a woman, to drop their guard when it came to chatting.

The conversation was on the woman being in a new relationship, or not. Her co-worker asked about her liaisons, or if you prefer the Oxford Dictionary term, “booty calls.”

“I haven’t slept with anyone else in five months,” she said as she cleaned the counter.

Her co-worker shrugged as he counted the money in his register, “That sounds like a relationship to me.”

Indeed.

There are perhaps other signs too, which means it is time for You Might Be in a Relationship If:

• You stop selling your partner’s anti-depressants in the Denny’s parking lot.
• You ask for photos of your partner’s face.
• Your partner names a Final Fantasy VII character after you.
• Your partner only shoots you once.
• You mention your partner on your podcast.
• You show your partner photos of your real family, instead of the photos that came with the frames.
• During a weekend getaway, you don’t wake up in a motel bathtub missing a kidney.¹
• You no longer list your partner as collateral.
• You answer the phone with “Hi!” instead of, “I need a favor.”
• You no longer care that your partner doesn’t have the same blood type.
• And finally, Your partner acts as inspiration for a character² in your self-published, My Little Pony fan-fiction novel, Relationships are Magic: Adventures in Mor-Thanfriendsia.

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¹ Which at the worst can only happen twice. Look on the bright side.
² I’ll let you think up the cutie mark for this one.

"Here is a photo featuring our newest hand model, the Crypt Keeper."

Intentional or not, this photo is hilarious.¹ Nice work, BBC News.

Later on, this photo replaced the one above:

The proper phrase is, 'a plague of microphones.'

Interesting. Maybe someone else noticed the creepy/suggestive factor.

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¹ I say this regardless of the candidate and/or party. The political aspect does not concern me, as I just write in Mojo Nixon every election. Because, if your ballot don’t got Mojo Nixon, then your ballot could use some fixin. 

Now, to play Jack Hanna for a moment (sans khaki). A degu is a Chilean rodent—sort of like a poor man’s Chinchilla. Or, as Steph likes to say, “If a hamster, a rat and a Chinchilla had a baby.” She may even have thrown raccoon in there too. Regardless, Cosmo has plenty of what experts call, Cute.

What makes a degu a rather fun pet is they are, unlike hamsters, very social. At this point, after hours spent bribing Cosmo with oats, he will happily hop into Steph’s hands and hang out. Cosmo is a far cry from Steph’s late hamster, Melon, who wanted nothing to do with her.

The biggest change for me is getting re-accustomed to Steph talking to someone else while I am visiting. Her cooing whispers of “Who’s a pretty boy?” are no longer merely directed at me. My fragile ego is having difficulty adjusting.

The worst of it came over the weekend. After dinner, Steph said, “Are you fat? Or are you just growing up?” I was nearly in tears before I realized she was addressing Cosmo. To add salt to the wound, this happened only a few hours after my unsuccessful attempt to buy a new pair of jeans. Trying on jeans immediately after the holidays is not the best thing for one’s self-esteem.

I think the jeans people (“Big Denim”) change the sizes every few months. Sure, it may have said 32, but it didn’t fit like the 32s I wore to the store. They are, of course, in cahoots with the weight loss/gym cabal (“Big Skinny”). Think about it: Big Denim alters the jeans sizes, a rube (Me), believes they have gained a few extra pounds, and then thinks “Dang! I better get to the gym!” and Big Skinny benefits. Then, after a few months of weight loss meetings and gym memberships, said rube (Me), buys a NEW pair of jeans.

One hand washes the other. It all makes so much sense. Wake up, Sheeple!

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¹ During the Summer, when I am clad in a tank top and shorts, I am often confused for a werewolf, or a short Bigfoot.

² From “Cosmos.” Steph is a fan of NASA, science fiction and Outer Space. I have yet to find out her feelings on Innerspace, however.

So long Monday’s Finger, hello Clattertron. As a fan of made up words, Clattertron feels better (and is much more search engine friendly).

Clatter means noise(s).

-Tron means (usually) a type of machine* (or in some cases, a mighty robot).

So, “noise machine” to some extent, which I felt was a good name for a blog, especially a blog by me. Regardless, it is a fake word, so it doesn’t really have to mean anything. Like Muppet, iPod or “Electoral College.”

There are times when you have to try something out for a few days to see if it works out or not. Heck, Black Sabbath wasn’t even Black Sabbath at first (same goes for Van Halen). Reminds me of that scene in This is Spinal Tap where they talk about their various band names over the years (The New Originals is a favorite).

* = the -tron suffix has other meanings too, for example electron, neutron and jumbotron.

A recent example of my less than Gosling nature was when it came time to hang my brand new 2012 Detroit Red Wings calendar (thanks, Mom). I was embarrassed to see my 2011 Detroit Red Wings calendar was still stuck on January. Oops. But, given the featured player for the month was Pavel Datsyuk, forgetting to turn the page wasn’t so bad.

Then, I opened my 2012 calendar and saw Datsyuk was once again Mr. January.

PHOTO

Crappy cellphone photo is crappy.

I’m glad to see he is at least on the opposite side of the page this year. Related: the Wings play the Leafs on Saturday. Looking forward to that one.

Speaking of the Leafs, I wonder if Tomas Kaberle and Tyler Seguin sent Leafs GM Brian Burke a Thank You card after winning the Stanley Cup with Boston? No, perhaps not.

Coming in 2013 (pending a delay in the Apocalypse/Ragnarok/Goslingeddon, mind you), “Well, I did it AGAIN.”

* Did you SEE Drive? My favorite film of 2011 without “Chip” in the title.

In a footnote for I Think My Mother Is Trying to Tell Me Something, I mentioned how my friend Erik sent me a Christmas gift. This was, in fact, a surprise, as Erik lives dozens of miles away in the quaint little town of San Francisco, CA (or KA for you Brad Pitt fans), while I reside in the sprawling metropolis of Lansing, MI.

The gift in question was the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle film archive. Yes, all four features, including the CGI-animated TMNT.

As to why, in Erik’s own words:

“I look at Christmas as an opportunity to buy for someone something they wouldn’t necessarily purchase for themselves.”

The original TMNT film is something of an inside joke for us (and others within our social circle). We constantly quote the film**. When the package showed up in my PO Box, I immediately ripped it open, and was given a rather wide berth by the other Post Office patrons, as I broke into a fit of laughter.

Perhaps the best part was the note inside: “What Russian novel, embracing more than 500 characters takes place during the Napoleonic War? MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

It really is the thought that counts when it comes to gift giving–which has become a constant refrain of Stephanie’s, when she brings up my giving her a cutting board for Valentine’s Day***.

* = On a related note, I am also a fan of horror films.

** = EX: “Cricket? You gotta know what a crumpet is before you can play cricket!,” “Ninja vanish!,” “Wise man say, never pay full price for late pizza,” etc. We were very popular in college.

***= Which should come as no surprise from someone who’s father once gave his mother a mop bucket for Christmas.