Losing the Internets

You're at the wrong place

2018-01-22T19:22:00.001-05:00

From now on, Losing the Internets has a new home. Find me at www.losingtheinternets.com. Go there now.

Seriously, click the link and read stuff.

Come on, just click the link. I have to go to the bathroom, and I can't wait all day.

Go Fund Me -- If You Want

2018-01-08T16:38:00.000-05:00

I don't accept help well, and I don't know why. It's not a "don't show weakness" thing as I routinely list all the things I do wrong. My pride and ego live in a tiny shoe box located in the upstairs closet, so I know they don't get in the way. I guess I could blame the ingrained stubbornness of American ingenuity, but that seems way too philosophical. I just have trouble with help.

For instance, I could be hauling a player piano up 30 flights of stairs in 105 degree heat. Each step pulls my back further out of alignment, resulting in excruciating pain, and I'm pretty sure I just tore my ACL. On the third flight, a professional piano mover comes up and lets me know that they'll take this behemoth the rest of the way up -- free of charge. I still would say, "No, that's ok, I go this," while mentally highlighting who gets my Bugs Bunny baseball picture in the will.

So when a Friend of the Blog suggested that I run a crowdfunding campaign to "elevate and promote" my writing, I initially blew a mental raspberry. I calculated the numbers, and with web hosting fees, writing conferences to meet agents and publishers, and the mandatory self promotion, I would need around $2,000 to make a go of it. Asking friends, family and strangers for $2,000 made me severely queasy. Like I just drank Christmas eggnog in July queasy.

Then, as I dug through my old Yahoo! archives trying to find an old Interpersonal Communication syllabus, I found an email from 2007. When I served as the executive director of a non-profit college access center, I apparently replied to a board member who showed hesitancy in asking for donations. I wrote:

... I always have trouble seeing donations as means for programming. Instead I see them as investments in family, friends and neighbors. As sparks of encouragement that can change lives. After all, the world is a better place when dreams can come true...

Hating that my own words that contradicted a very eloquent raspberry, and after a scientifically inaccurate Facebook poll, I have started a Go Fund Me page (www.gofundme.com/JackGrubb). The goal is set at an uncomfortable $2,000, which I understand asks a lot. I did set some reward levels, so I can justify this work as transactional. Also, I really want to write a bunch of fake doctor's notes for some fictitious maladies.

What Funds Will Fund
Here's a breakdown of the cost to begin a real writing career:

Hosted website with custom domain: $144/year
Custom email: $60/year
Indianapolis writing conference (w/agent audit): $276
Writing classes (x3): $525
Personal writing/publishing coach through Carnegie Center (Highly suggested): $540
Shameless self promotion through social media: $600

Total: $2,145

Thank You in Advance

If you feel moved to contribute to the Go Fund Me Campaign (www.gofundme.com/JackGrubb), let this be the first of a thousands of thanks. I will not let you down -- or maybe I will. I'm not too sure of your disappointment threshold.

If you don't feel the mojo, that's ok. I'm glad you made it down to the bottom of the article and hope you come back. Losing the Internets will always be here and will always be subjectively funny. Just do me a favor, and share the blog on Facebook. Unless you don't want to.

The curse of optimism

2018-01-03T12:25:00.000-05:00

From the beginning, I thought optimism equaled survival.

I didn't get over the hemiparesis effects of a neonatal stroke by accepting my lot in life.* No, I bucked up and said, "With physical therapy and determination I will run like everyone else. One day I won't have to wear my shoes on the wrong feet to force them to turn out. One day I will place fourth in state in the 400 meter dash -- even if it is only among private schools. One day it will be better."

When never-ending mind-numbing migraines knocked me out of work, I didn't lay down and whimper. No, I staggered up and quietly proclaimed, "So what if the doctor, the hospital and a nationally renowned neurologist can't figure out what's wrong with me. One day I'll stop these headaches. One day I'll be able to remember that bills get paid in the mailbox, not the front dresser drawer. One day I'll be able to understand why critics call Reba 'middling and pedestrian.' One day it will be better."

Through depression, premature births, and family cancer scares things will get better. Corrupt companies, layoffs and a depreciating housing price can't dent my optimism. After all when I'm stuck in a day that's gray and gloomy. I just stick out my chin and grin and say...tomorrow! tomorrow! I'll love you tomorrow! You're always a day a way!

Man, they should write a song about that.

Optimism can be that fuel that drives you to achieve the unachievable. You can't climb Mount Everest without first visualizing yourself reaching the summit. When you fail at an experiment, it can show you the pathway to success. A rousing pep-talk is all you need to take a team of misfits to win the Hockey Pee-Wee League State Championship.

Optimism lies in the future. Things may be bad now, but later they'll be better. No matter what, an oasis lies just over the next sand dune. Just wait until you get older, the girls will be all over you. Optimists may not think as the glass half-full today, but definitely believe that it will overflow tomorrow.

I used to live in the future of optimism. I could easily erase a disappointing event with a good night's sleep and fresh perspective. That now has changed after seven harrowing months of day to day bad. FDA recall, family company bankruptcy, car problems, a diminishing bank account, thyroid surgery, thyroid cancer, missing Christmas with the family, and the cancelation of Lego Dimensions. If I wake up tomorrow and find the dog cooking meth in the downstairs bathroom, it wouldn't surprise me one bit.

Now, I haven't gone over to the dark side of pessimism. I don't expect crappy things to happen, I just don't expect good things to happen either. If you base life assumptions on a teeter-totter, I would rest directly on the fulcrum. I just don't have the emotional stamina to roll over to one side or the other. If you rather relate philosophies to candy, I'm the Now, not the Later.

Let me give an example of what I mean:

Last month I found out I had papillary thyroid cancer, and even though the doctors called it the "Cadillac of cancers," it's still cancer. To eradicate the cancer cells I had to do some pretty awful stuff, like cut iodine out of my diet, take a highly radioactive pill, segregate myself from all of humanity (and pets-manity) for seven days, and then lie still for 45 minutes while a machine invaded my personal space. Merry Christmas to me.

I could have spent the entire time worrying about what the scan results showed. I could have planned funeral arrangements or celebration menus, preparing for the worst and hoping for the best. But instead I watched Trading Places, built Lego models, talked to the kids on FaceTime, and fought the never ending battle of kitchen space with a horde of ants. And because these weren't just time distractions until the big reveal, I could really enjoy them.

The scan came back showing an absence of cancer cells, and of course I was elated. But if it came back that 24 lymph nodes were infected, I wouldn't be surprised. Sad, yes, but not surprised. And I didn't waste a week by myself worrying about it -- especially when there's a Lego A-Team van to assemble.

Before all you optimists and pessimists pity me, I challenge you to try and free yourself from expectations. You'll be amazed at the happiness you find in the details of life. Watching your kid struggling to free a loose tooth becomes thrilling. You relish sitting on the couch with your partner, even though you're not talking and working on separate laptops. Even the new Star Wars movie can turn into a pleasurable experience when you don't worry about legacies and discarded canon.

Disappointments do come, but they don't stick around for very long. Like, sure, this blog column now ends, but somewhere there's a Seinfeld rerun on to take it's place.

*Sorry for the science-y sentence. The less arrogant sentence is "You don't get over muscle weakness after a stroke before birth..." I just wanted to make sure you read until the end.

Be a billionaire by answering a math question

2017-12-12T00:28:00.000-05:00

Not much to talk about this week regarding my health. Thyroid came out -- stitches came out -- and I feel fantastic! Like I was 25 again. Except I have two kids, rising costs, 1/2 the income and a car that may need a new battery -- so maybe like I am still 41. But a 41 that can stay awake past 9:00 PM EST.

As I spent time recuperating, all I heard about was Bitcoin.

That's a lie. I also heard about Matt Lauer, Al Franken, Roy Moore, Garrison Keeler, North Korea, Net Neutrality, Jerusalem, opioids, and Disney buying Fox. All I choose to acknowledge, though, is Bitcoin.

Why, you may or may not ask? Well, if you're still reading, I'll tell you.

At this writing, Bitcoin is trading at $2,163,854 per something. Evidently, people can get rich selling a made-up currency (which smart people call cryptocurrency). I'm told you can buy real things with Bitcoin, as real companies like Kelly's Pizza, Bloomberg.com, and Subway let you pay with 1's and 0's. That's an expensive 6-inch meatball marinara if a coin is worth $2,163,845.

Or is that sub worth $1,673, as that is what Bitcoin is trading at in this paragraph -- the part where I try and explain what Bitcoin is. I mean to the three uncool people who don't understand Bitcoin, because it is super easy to get. Like how most people can easily assemble an Ikea entertainment center. Unfortunately, you can't buy that entertainment center with Bitcoin.

According to Gizmodo, where I get most of my financial advice, here's what I know about Bitcoin:

Bitcoin was started by somebody, probably
In 2009, Satoshi Nakamoto had a dream to start a currency that doesn't need the irrational scrutiny of the banking industry. Or to be more precise, the person behind the pseudonym Satoshi Nakamoto had the dream, because Satoshi Nakamoto doesn't actually exist. Nobody actually knows who's behind Satoshi Nakamoto. It could be Californian computer scientist Hal Finney, Australian businessman Craig Wright, or that basement-dweller who Trump believed hacked the DNC servers.

In 1994, my parents wouldn't let me see a Spin Doctor's concert at Alpine Creek because I didn't know the name of my friend's friend who would have drove. I don't know if I can trust a made-up currency that very well could have started by that friend's friend -- who was truly a HUGE stoner.

You can "mine" bitcoin if you answer math questions
When I asked an expert about how Bitcoin is made, he talked about blockchain and cryptocurrencies and digital gold, but he did it in such a condescending way that I just nodded my head and played along. But what I did get from the bus station attendant is that you can acquire a Bitcoin by answering some math questions. I don't know exactly how or the complexity of the problems -- because that would take research -- but I did find a video that explained to me that I need a super-fast, super-expensive computer that will do the math for me.

I trust this guy knows what he is saying because he knows the name of at least three computer thingies and he wears an Eminem shirt. As we all know Eminem is the rapper of cryptocurrency.

All I really know is that neither my brain or my computer can do the complex computations or we will explode. Since I'm generally against exploding, no Bitcoin for me. And how do we know that Satoshi Nakamoto is not just some Harvard professor who got a grant to solve time travel and realized, "Damn, I don't know math. Let's give out imaginary treats to other people to do the work for me." I respect that.

Bitcoin is backed by Bitcoin

The main difference between real money and cryptocurrency is that no government or financial institution backs it. It's peer-to-peer (or the trendy P2P), meaning that transactions go directly from one dude to the other anonymously. The value of the Bitcoin, then, is determined by the people believing it has value, and that there are only a finite quantity (21 million, I believe).

To me, that makes it more of a collectable, like Beanie Babies. For a while, a Beanie Babies were worth up to $76,000 because everybody wanted one. But after a while we woke up a remembered that they were only poorly made beanbags with eyes, and now you give them out at Halloween because you ran out of fun size Three Musketeers. One day we may all wake up and think that invisible money is stupid, but until then nobody is going to spend Bitcoin on a Sweet Teriyaki Chicken because we think they are investment pieces.

There's a lot more about Bitcoin, but I kinda spaced out about now. It could be the space currency of the future, but it also could be the next version of Lenny Lobster. But what do I know. My entire view on economics is based on a Duck Tails episode where Scrooge McDuck exposes a civilization to a currency, then ruins that same civilization through hyperinflation.

Take a look -- it's a "duck blur."

Not dying is a plus...

2017-12-02T22:06:00.001-05:00

As I'm sure you remember, on Monday I had my thyroid forcibly ripped from my throat and discarded in the trash like a hunk of rancid sausage. I was told the surgery was a sight to behold, as it lasted about two hours. I petered out before it started, but I think it must have ended with a hulking man-wolf perched upon the operating table holding the offending gland aloft, shouting "I have slain the beast, and it is glorious!"

The "doctor" tells me he just removed the thyroid calmly, closed up the incision, and left for another appointment. He has no imagination. And his lab coat makes him look like a pharmacist.

Since then I have been recuperating at my sister-in-laws in Indianapolis, so that no little princess hands could jab at my scar. It's been pretty boring. But since nothing else happened in the world, here's some random thoughts I had the day of surgery:

Before

Hospital waiting rooms are never as glamorous as they make them look like on T.V.

I wonder what that guy is in for? Is it rude to ask?

Should I have made a scrapbook of me and my thyroid on Snapfish? Or perhaps a mug?

It would be cool if the thyroid was God's superpower restrictor plate. Like the nurse comes out and says, "you're going to be in a lot of pain this week, but now you can fly!

I wish I chose "turn invisible" instead of "fly" for my superpower

Why did they have me take off my underwear for a neck surgery? Should I be worried?

I wonder how many naked guys wore this robe before me?

I hope my insides smell nice

I'm going to try and dream about dinosaurs. But Fred Flintstone dinosaurs, because real dinosaurs freak me the flip out

The nurse keeps calling it "Happy Juice." Does she think I'm five, or is that just fruit punch? Hopefully they didn't run a financial check on me before hand

Getting sleepy....dinosaurs....dinosaurs....dinosaurs....grocery shopping....CRAP!....zzzzzzzzzz

During

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...dinosaur shopping...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

After

These stiches hurt. How does Frankenstein's monster do it?

I'm going to keep pretending I'm asleep until the nurse leaves, because I'm pretty naked under this sheet

The doctor said he couldn't see my parathyroids. Now I think he's just making stuff up to sound important

I wish they let me keep the gland in a mason jar

Is it too brazen to ask the hospital if they have a social media marketing plan?

My vocal cord nerve is fine -- why is my wife crying?

So insurance approved 40 pain killers without blinking an eye, but turned down a calcium supplement. Can't believe we have an opioid crisis

This neck drain that I have to wear tonight -- not in the brochure

I wonder if my gall bladder will want it's freedom, too?

Not dying is a plus and all, but my family would have been set if I kicked it on the operating table

It's a beautiful day. The bees are beeing. The birds are birding. And HOLY CRAP MY THROAT HURTS!

My momma always said if something was rotten, cut it out of your life

And that's all the time we have tonight, kids. Come back tomorrow when my guests will be Martin Short, Method Man, and the music stylings of the Dixie Chicks.

Good night, and sweet dreams.

Of dinosaurs.

Death, Dying and Showstopping Musical Numbers

2017-11-26T15:31:00.000-05:00

First, thank you all for the incredible support generated by my last post. I debated with myself about whether or not I should post about being unemployed, and if people would be offended by the content. Luckily, myself convinced myself that I had enough conversations with other folks who were laid-off, that most people could understand the sentiment. And I was right.

But then again, I also was wrong.

Self-debate is filled with losers.

Another loser: my thyroid. On Monday, my thyroid will be forcibly ripped from my neck in a routine procedure. Then, they will check the shivering lump for any cancerous bumps, and discard it in a thyroid specific trash can. I believe it also gets teased by several doctors with fully functioning thyroids. I'm not sure what the teasing accomplishes, but I'm told it is all medically necessary.

To prevent my neck from putting up a fight, the doctors will have me suck some hippy-gas until I fall asleep. Anesthesia has a lot of upside of being a great sleeping aid, with only one real drawback -- the chance of death. Not being a huge fan of death, I'm reluctant in signing the "Can't Sue" waver, but since my neck frequently writes loving haikus to my thyroid, I feel that putting it to sleep is the only way to quell a resistance.

To come to terms with my impending minute chance of doom, I watched the pinnacle piece of cinema about death. The Bucket List is a 2007 masterpiece involving thespians Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicolson -- who are contractually required to be in every movie about old people) -- recovering from cancer. The two concoct a list of things they would like to do so that they could die fully fulfilled. See the pyramids, drive a sports car, and get a tattoo make the list. Strangely, spending quality time with the family or make sure next year's 1040s are in order do not make the cut.

Inspired by this American Classic, many people have created Bucket Lists. You can scour the Interwebs and find out the 100 places to visit before you die, or the 100 foods to eat before you die, or the 100 books you should read before you die. The problem of these mundane list items, is that there is so much to lose. What if you put down "See the Pyramids" on your list, and once you get there you just can't get over the oppressive heat? Or you read Moby Dick and realize that it's just about a whale? What then? You die unfulfilled and all the satisfied ghosts won't let you into their cool ghost club. That's what.

I have decide to make my own bucket list for two distinct reasons. 1.) Morgan Freeman told me to do it, and his voice has magical enchantments. 2.) If I don't finish the list I CAN NEVER DIE - MWAHAHAHAHAHA.

My Bucket List by Jack Grubb

1.) Participate in a large musical number in which the spoken word would not adequately express the emotion felt.

This musical number can arise spontaneously ala "Stick to the Status Quo" in High School Musical, or be meticulously planned like the end of Mr. Holland's Opus. It has to be big, involving many people and many voices, mostly to drown out my Pig-Stuck-In-A-Blender vocal stylings.

2.) Attend a dinner party speaking only in movie and T.V. quotes.

Those who guess said quotes will be awarded points based on the obscurity of the quote. Once someone reaches 100, I hand them a solid gold trophy, grab my coat and hat, and leave.

3.) Buy a coat and hat.

Trenchcoat and fedora, preferably. I also would like to slick back my hair, start smoking Pall Malls, and mutter wildly about saving the Savings & Loan.

4.) Finish my ABCs of Esoteric Words.

A is for avuncular. B is for bifurcate. It's never too early to become a Hipster.

5.) Start calling the mailman Scarecrow.

When he finally asks why, I'll touch his face and say, "because I'll miss you most of all."

6.) Pick what cabinet to haunt.

Haunting a whole house seems like a lot of work. I would rather just haunt a cabinet, especially the one where they keep the donuts. Knowing my luck, though, I'll end up with cups and mugs. Nobody gets scared of haunted cups and mugs.

7.) Do one set of stand-up comedy and/or improv.

Three things got in the way pf my comedy career: 1.) I didn't want to travel 45-50 weeks a year; 2.) I didn't really enjoy the company of most other stand-up people I met; 3.) I'm not funny. I would like to do one set, though, just to see what a disaster I would have been.

8.) Open up a Gamer Pub in Indianapolis.

I don't know why I have this stupid dream. I know nothing of retail or restauranting (or if restauranting is even a word). But I want a game store that makes money by selling beer, wine and pub food in the playing area. Special events would be aplenty. Bonus points by getting my brothers-in-laws to play along.

9.) Finish a story

I have about 20 started and none finished. Some because they suck, some because they closely resemble the plot of Ishtar, and some because I forgot where I saved the text. One day I will have a book published. Probably self-published on Amazon Kindle for 52 cents, but I will be in print along side such classics like: Texting Mr. Right and But...You're a Horse.

10.) Have a ginormous party with all my friends.

The Queen has amassed a plethora of friends during every move. One or two can stomach me, also. Combine those with my childhood and college friends and we could fill an average size Pizza Hut. We'll invite everyone, just enter with the password, "I got booze." It would be doubly faboo if the night could end with a large musical number.

Cheering Up the Unemployed

2017-11-14T14:32:00.000-05:00

I haven't written in a crap ton (metric weight) amount of time. Why?

Lots of work, lots of travel, lots of kids, lots of moving, lots of Doritos, lots of 2016 World Series celebrating, little of time.

And now?

Nothing.

We all know the age-old story: Boy meets company. Boy loves company. Boy brings niche food product to national prominence. Boy meets FDA. Boy gets hit on head with proverbial cartoon mallet. Boy loses company. Boy feels weight of unemployment crushing his lower pelvis region. Boy writes on long forgotten blog.

If you want to know the whole story, click here. (By the way, I wrote the Press Release.)

I've been unemployed before, but I can only describe this stint as soul-shattering. I lost a family business. Working with my father has transformed my life in a profound way. Our daily interactions and the bond we created over peanut-free peanut butter has made me a better son, father and husband. I resisted the business for so long, like working for Dad meant I couldn't hack it on my own. Now I only wish I started the day I left my college campus.

But as they say, when God closes a door, He just may piss on you from the upstairs window. This window just happens to be in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains, land of opportunity for a marketing specialist who specializes in niche companies. Not to mention that most of the places -- eight in total -- I have worked before no longer exist. I essentially have an out-of-place resume built on ghosts.

So, I look for my friends for support. Most do well and try to hook me up with job opportunities or empathy. I appreciate that from the bottom of my heart. This lost hit hard, as I feel that I let down my wife, my kids and myself. It wasn't my fault, and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop this predicament. I need proactive love from love ones, because I know I won't seek it out. I've got job hunting to do.

Some people, however, can stay silent. I know they mean well, but just like a funeral, some people just don't know what to say. There are certain phrases that should not be said, basically because they act as daggers made of ice piercing the heart and melting while I slowly bleed out. Or like watching a twelve hour marathon of Shaquille O'Neal movies. Whichever is worse. So don't say these -- unless you are an a-hole. Then go ahead.

Everything happens for a reason.
My life--and the lives of everyone who used to work at the company, the co-packer, and the people who got seriously ill--went totally sideways for some sort of cosmic plan? That's like ripping out my right eye so my daughter can meet the doctor's 7-year old son, who she will marry sixteen years later. I'm not sure God commands such a Rube Goldberg universe.

You'll have so much more time for your family.
a.) I have much more time to slowly sink my family into financial ruin. b.) I'm pretty sure my family would rather have me at work. I'm much better in small quantities.

You'll be fine.
This is what you tell a person who was bitten by a zombie and is just about to be shot in the head unless they turn. It's something you tell a small child who is scared to slide down the "tall slide." It's what you tell someone when they have to drink something that is hopefully an anecdote. Not what you tell someone who is struggling to pay their bills.

Have you tried...
Usually these suggestions are so benign or outlandish that the suggestion is worthless. There is no middle ground. It's either "Have you tried updating your resume?" or "Have you tried selling blood to a hungry vampire?" The only reason that this should be said is if it is solicited. If you don't hear, "What can I do?" don't give suggestions.

HERE IS WHAT YOU SHOULD SAY

That really sucks.

or

Are you OK?

or (hopefully)

Here is someone I can introduce you to who can help you get a job.

That's it. Nothing more.

This article has been a PSA sponsored by Cashwise Payday Loans.

Lazy von Jingles -- Multitasker

2014-12-15T00:27:00.000-05:00

So, it was a quiet weekend without a visit from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (and I don't mean Voldemort). That was until I received this text:

But I got the last laugh. I just invited over the geriatric nudist society to try out my new living room trampoline.

Lazy von Jingles: Master of Pranks

2014-12-09T22:20:00.000-05:00

My maniacal elf is back, this time in 30's gangster form.

Unfortunately, I am not the bees knees like Larry. Perhaps I can wow ol' von Jingles with a Cracker Jack performance.

Lazy von Jingles gets personal

2014-12-08T17:26:00.000-05:00

Another miserable text from my Elf on the Shelf, Lazy von Jingles...

Never-nude until New Year's!

The Horror that is Lazy von Jingles

2014-12-08T00:56:00.002-05:00

Do you feel it? That empty place in your soul where trivial, useless musings used to live. It eats at you day after day, wondering about what's happened to Jack Grubb and his fabulous blog. Sure, you tried to fill the void with cat videos and whatever links George Takei throws at you on Facebook, but nothing can replace Losing the Internets. I know; I felt it too.

You can now stop sitting in the back of your closet drinking Mad Dog 20/20 listening to Depress Mode records in the dark. I'm back, baby, so please stop flooding my inbox with requests...

wait...

Not one...

Screw you, guys! I could have been lying dead in a ditch for all you care. I could have been taken hostage by a rogue tribe of donkey-men demanding equal pay and their weight in hay. Man, this is more depressing than the time when my imaginary friend ran away with my imaginary dog. Even my Christmas elf ignores me.

That's right, I have a Christmas elf -- not that you care. He came as a package deal with Daffodil Snowflake, the Princess's elf. Her elf gives her special surprises, like a tub of cookie dough in the fridge or trips to the zoo. Daffodil texts the Princess with clever jokes and inspirational quotes. She loves her elf and draws it pictures depicting the two dancing and enjoying a nice yogurt parfait together.

My elf, Lazy von Jingles, hates me and I hate him. While Daffodil flitters around the house spreading sunshine and gaiety, Lazy von Jingles just sits on the couch eating pork rinds and scratching himself with our good spatula. Ask him to bring his plate to the sink or stop watching Pay-Per-View pornography, and he just spits in your eye. And the mouth on the bastard! Even Eminem was like, "Dude, you need to tone it down."

I didn't even want to get into the Elf Tradition. (Can you even call something started in 2005 a tradition?) If you're not familiar with Elf on a Shelf, let me fill you in. Evidently, Santa could give a crap about privacy rights as he sends his NSA-like elf spies to record your every move. From Thanksgiving until Christmas, these little a-holes watch to see what "naughty" things your family does on a day-to-day basis. Then on Christmas Eve, it goes back to Santa with a comprehensive report that makes the Affordable Care Act seem like light reading. Forget Elf on a Shelf, it should be called NARC in the Dark.

My elf, however, will have none of that. According to von Jingle, I'm already on the naughty list because "I know what I did." I can't even protest it to the big guy himself or a "dead hooker may find its way into my trunk." And forget about the nice gifts or experiences that some elves leave their charge. Here's what the Princess got from Daffodil Snowflake:

Here's the kind of texts I get:

The worst part of Lazy is whenever I ask if he's really leaving on Christmas, he just winks and says "Maybe." What the hell does that mean?! And why does he keep slapping me on the butt? Seriously!

Maybe now you'll feel bad for not caring if I posted another entry on the blog. It's pretty hard to write while hiding from some maniacal elf who keeps "accidentally" cutting the power lines. You know a nice note would have given me an emotional boost in this hard time. But go ahead, enjoy your holiday. Lazy von Jingles has a butter-sock full of Christmas cheer all ready for me.

The Princess Conspiracy

2014-06-01T00:52:00.000-04:00

I don't know if you noticed, but last winter a struggling studio named the Walt Disney Company put out a small independent film called Frozen. It's about the life of a magical, talking snowman and how he shows two sisters, one who has winter-based powers and one who doesn't, the meaning of true love. Oops...

SPOILERS

It's about the life of a magical, talking snowman and how he shows two sisters, one who has winter-based powers and one who doesn't, the meaning of true love.

SPOILERS OVER

The movie seemed to make a buck or two and gained a lot of praise for how Disney bucked it's "helpless little princess" ways of past movies. Newspapers and feminist blogs everywhere raved how Anna is saved by an act of sisterly love, and not by any man! In fact the usual tropes of love at first sight or openly mocked by having the initial love interest becoming a right bastard. Disney has finally found a progressive princess to be proud of -- unlike those meek and boy-crazy monarchs of the past. Oops...

SPOILERS

There are still newspapers.

SPOILERS OVER

On the surface this feminist proposition sounds justified. From Snow White to Rapunzel, Disney "princess" heroines mostly concern themselves with men. By reading the back of the box of these films, these girls can exude the appearance of ditzy, meek little things that need to be saved rather than role models that modern girls should emulate. Even the Disney Princess line of toys perpetuates that stereotype, by covering all toys in pink, purple and other pastels and keeping themes to salons, kitchens and dress shops. On the surface, these past princesses are only about the tiara.

But I object the premise of the argument. In fact most Disney movies show young women that I would be happy for my own Princess to mimic. Most of these heorines are everything I strive to teach my daughter about being kind, strong, true to beliefs and taking risks. In what I will dub the Princess Conspiracy, I will show you how strong these women are princess by princess using Disney's own princess collection.

Lets start in order, shall we:

Snow White: Sure, she's demonized for her looks by a vain step-mother, and banished to die, but she convinces her executioner not to do it. Then she breaks into a house and pretty much takes over. Sure she cooks and cleans, but it's the 1930's. Name another 1930's film that features women in both the heroine and villain roles.

Cinderella: Here's a girl who is stripped of her title and acts as a defacto slave to her step-family. Does she wilt or whine in her situation? No! She performs her tasks dutifully and trains mice in her spare time. When she wants something she goes after it, creating a dress from scraps to attend the only thing that could distract her from her miserable existence. And when she is thwarted, who comes to her rescue -- another woman! Then at the end when the palace lackey comes around with the glass slipper, she defies her oppressors and was like, "Yeah, that's my slipper bi-otch. I'll see you losers later." I'm pretty sure if the prince didn't come a-calling, she would have led the mice on an all-out revolution.

Aurora: OK, this gal is pretty damsel in distressy, but in her defense, she had no idea what was going on. Her parents hid her a forest with three old ladies for 16 years. Then she sleeps for the other half of the movie. It's hard to play a liberated sleeping woman.

Ariel: This sixteen year old may fall in love a bit quick, but her determination and risk-taking shows that she will not bow to any man. Her quest actually has to do more with the human world, and the man is just the cherry on top. And when her dad throws a hissy fit, does she give up and cower to a man's whims? Hell no. She trades a part of herself to get what she wants. A less progressive women would have sought out the nearest merman and popped out a litter of merpeople while being trapped in a loveless mermarriage.

Belle: She's incredibly intelligent and reads during a time when women -- or most people -- were not literate. When people allude to the idea of taking a man, she's like "screw you, a-hole," and rebukes Gaston's manliness. She sacrifices herself to protect the elderly, and t naturally becomes the leader of a bunch of talking household items. Then she forces the man to submit to her preferences before she will even consider loving him, and not the other way around. It's also interesting to note that the villain is the stereotypical image of masculinity.

Jasmine: Consider for a moment that in many countries of the modern-era Middle East women cannot drive or travel without permission from a man. Then look at Jasmine who freely speaks her mind to the Sultan. Thieves get their hands cut off for stealing a crust of bread, what do you think would happen to a woman who back-talked their father? And she owned a tiger!

Pocahontas: I have actually never seen Pocahontas all the way through. The talking tree threw me for a loop and I never finished the movie. I hear she's a bad-ass that saves John Smith and then stays with her people instead of following him back to England.

Mulan: She saves China from the freakin' Huns. The. Freakin'. Huns.

Tiana: Hard working, independent thinker, and a thirst to be a small business owner. That's a pretty large, non-stereotypical role for a black woman in the 1920's. In fact it is the prejudice of the white, male bankers that deny her ambition. But she displays tenacity and grace as she keeps pursuing her dream. She doesn't even let getting turned into a frog get in her way. She makes the prince work for her affection as she thinks he's a jerk for most of the movie. And in the end when she could retire to the palace and live the life a leisure, she says "Not in this lifetime! I'm opening my damn restaurant and you, Princy-boy, will be my waiter. I am the wage earner in this family!"

Rapunzel: This is the most intriguing princess, as on the service she seems like the demure cliche of femininity. She bubbly and optimistic and naive and wears pastel purple. What a ditz. Then when the man shows up, she smacks him into submission, forces him to escort her around and do her bidding, rescues him multiple times, and even saves HIS life in the end. By the way she proposed to him. It's clear that its her kingdom and he's merely the arm-candy.

Merida: In every way throughout this film, Merida defies her "womanly" expectations and outshines every single man to the point where they are merely background characters. Not only does she not have a love interest, she humiliates all who even tried.

You may think that Disney movies only show vulnerable, flighty women, and I will respect your decision to be wrong. The princess product line may make this rather strong group of teenagers look like vapid airheads whose only thought is about their perfectly quaffed hair, but I believe that's a horrible disservice to the source material. I, for one, will confidently show these movies to my daughter so she can view a wealth of positive female role models.

Except for Pocahontas. Talking trees freak me out.

Uncomfortably old

2014-05-26T00:36:00.001-04:00

As a plucky, young sophomore in high school, my friends and I practically begged our theater director to let our school perform the stage production of Grease for our spring musical. It all seemed like a good idea. After all, a play about high schoolers in the late 1950's fits a high school play perfectly. The characters are relatable, the songs are catchy, and we could wear leather jackets and jeans. All in all, Grease kicks Oklahoma's ass.

Our crusty director never let us perform Grease, citing that it was too risque for a bunch of kids to perform. He asserted that the language and theme would make parents and grandparents uncomfortable. We retorted that any movie that starred Olivia Newton John cannot be that bad. She sang songs about summer love and exercise. Why would Olivia Netwon John put her name on anything inappropriate for high school kids? With the way they talked about Grease, you would have thought that it's all about sex.

That's because Grease is all about sex. I know this because I just sat through a rather uncomfortable high school rendition of the play. It started making me squeemish when a bunch of teenagers started singing about screwing in the sand. My stomach clenched a bit after Grease Lightning made chicks cream. And my soul died a bit when I witnessed my nephew honking some girl's adolescent knockers. Now I know why Mr. Baird made our class stick to playing ruthless, singing gangsters instead of horny teenagers.

For those who never seen the play or the much tamer movie, let me give you a little snippet of a song without all the alluring music:

We'll get some overhead lifters, and four barrel quads, oh yeah
Keep talkin', whoah keep talkin'
Fuel injection cut off, and chrome plated rods, oh yeah
I'll get the money, I'll see you get the money
With a four-speed on the floor, they'll be waitin' at the door
You know that ain't shit when we'll be gettin' lots of tit in greased lightnin'

Chorus:
Go, greased lightnin', you're burnin' up the quarter mile
Greased lightnin', go greased lightnin'
Go, greased lightnin', you're coastin' through the heat lap trials
Greased lightnin', go greased lightnin'
You are supreme, the chicks'll cream for greased lightnin'

We'll get some purple French tail lights and thirty-inch fins, oh yeah
A palomino dashboard and duel muffler twins, oh yeah
With new pistons, plugs, and shocks, I can get off my rocks
You know that I ain't braggin', she's a real pussy wagon - greased lightnin'

I seem to recall watching Grease at nine years old. My sister watched it so much by the time she turned 13 that we had to buy a new VHS tape. Perhaps I was distracted by the Hand Jive and all that leather, but the idea that every single scene revolved around sex never entered my fragile little mind. The only thing that really bothered me was that Sandy felt like she had to change and start smoking in order to get her man. And that the car flew at the end. Perhaps these teens putting on the play are as clueless as I was at that age.

But there's a difference between watching and acting. With acting you need to digest the lines and derive meaning. When you're watching a play you might gloss over lines about how "horny" the characters say they are, but when you rehearse the lines over and over, you can't miss what's going on. Even for the audience it's different. There's a bigger separation from reality when watching 30-somethings pretending to be teenagers on screen and watching actual teenagers on stage, especially in close proximity of parents and grandparents.

And the worse part...the kids acted superbly. They sang fluidly, acted believably, and looked like they were having fun every step of the way. I don't know how a northern suburb of Indianapolis amasses such talent, but they really knocked it right out of the park. The kid who played Sonny might even make it big!

Anyways, I'm probably being a big prude. No one else seemed uncomfortable as the crowd erupted in a huge ovation at the end of the song about how Rizzo would rather be pregnant than a tease. Perhaps I'll just have to accept that sex and teenagers go hand in hand, or that today's youth have absolutely no clue as to what's going on.

Besides I'm kinda looking forward to their next performance--I hear good things about The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Working for ghosts

2014-05-12T11:45:00.001-04:00

I know, I know. It's been a while since I had time to sit and write on Losing the Internets, frustrating my fan to no end. I missed it too. The writing; the lack of response; the endless criticism from my editor of my grammer and speling. (Don't worry Queen, I misspelled those words on purpose for comedy's sake. I know that grammer is really spelled with a o.)

The reason for my absence is that I've been busy with work. In the last month, I created a database of over 5,000 grocery stores where I had to look each one up individually, and that takes an extraordinary amount of time banging away at a computer. On top if that I had two conventions where I acted as a knowledgeable exhibitor and a 100-foot sandwich to promote. By the time I have a chance to write, I'm so sick of the computer that I mostly just close my eyes and dream of bunnies. Horrible, horrible bunnies.

Not that I'm complaining. If there is one thing I really like, it's working. And after I stepped down from being an unpaid Executive Director at a local non-profit, constant work has been spotty at best. I have a few clients that I help with their social media outlets, but after the platforms are built, it's just a matter of keeping them updated. That's enjoyable, but not always at the constant, unrelenting pace that I like. I guess I could clean the house and teach the Princess some morals, but the house will just get dirty again and Princess keeps threatening to move out, get her navel pierced, and join an unregulated, underground circus specializing in monkey acrobats.

While I welcome this spike of activity, and anticipate it will continue to spike until August, I'm looking for a more constant state of employment. I especially am targeting one organization in particular, even though I have a better shot at creating a cat out of spare hair found in couch cushions than landing an interview. At least I probably won't get one by going through the traditional online portal.

The problem: Five of my past jobs have been with companies that no longer exist. Any HR director will tell you that having multiple positions in theoretical companies can hamper your employment opportunities because there isn't any way to corroborate that you actually worked there. Having five on the resume isn't just a red flag, it's a red tapestry that covers the entire North wall -- the tallest of all the walls.

Here's what I'm talking about. The names of the companies will be held private (but if you're curious, just look at my LinkedIn profile).

Job #1--Insurance advertising copywriter: Company merged with another local company and assumed their name. The merged company was bought by a national conglomerate which renamed the entity again. For the two phone numbers listed, one is disconnected and the other is for a Kosher deli.
Job #2 --Insurance advertising copywriter: Company decides to keep two sets of financial books, which as it turns out, is illegal. Company folds and is broken up into different subsidiaries that all have different names. Building I used to work at is now home to a college preparatory school.
Job #3--Middle School/high school teacher: Private school closed down for various non-criminal reasons. The website is still up if you want to enroll for the 2008-2009 school year.
Job #4--Middle School/high school teacher: School shut down because of various non-academic scandals. Their story becomes more sordid and unbelievable the more I read about it.
Job #5--Non-profit executive director: Don't start a non-profit during the worst recession since the Great Depression. After grant money dried up, board didn't want to restart under new leadership.

I've been told that I'm the type of employee that sees his work as an extension of his life. That no task is too large or too small to undertake. I work hard and smart, and bring unbridled creativity and heart to the workplace. Unfortunately, these organizations couldn't stick around, making me look like a confidence man trying to shake down old ladies for their Social Security checks.

Now, before this devolves into a pity party (one that serves pathetic punch and hopeless hors d'oeuvres), I understand this isn't the end of the world. It isn't even the end of the city block. I just now understand why it may be impossible to go the traditional wait and see route and find more unconventional in-roads to my dream job. And if I never get there, so what. I have a lovely wife, a great kid, a somewhat ok dog, and glitter all over my couch.

What more can a guy want.

Hiding in the dark

2014-03-13T22:41:00.003-04:00

I'm hiding on my bed in the dark trying to be as quiet as possible.

"Is there a psycho killer loose in your house?" You ask, hopefully quietly.

No, it's a three-year-old child who has relocated herself from her room to the couch. I foolishly said that if she actually pooped during the day, she could have sleep wherever she wanted to tonight. Usually she poops in her Pull-Up during the night, which leads to all sorts of shenanigans. Today, right before her bath, she pooped, and then declared that she was going to sleep on the couch.

All was good until she actually had to sleep on the couch. It's rather uncomfortable compared to a bed. She's been tossing, and turning, and telling me that I'm making too much noise, and that the light from my room is bugging her. I tried to convince her to go back into her room, but to no avail.

And a deal is a deal.

So I sit in the dark on a bed full of clean unfolded clothes wondering what makes parenthood so wonderful. Then I remember how she spent two hours singing "Let it Go" and dancing crazy-like across the living room. I guess it's worth it.

Crap, the furnace just clicked on.....

Keeping fingers crossed.

The passion economy

2014-03-04T22:33:00.002-05:00

Between eating my morning bowl of cereal and pouring my first cup of coffee, I flipped on the TV to Morning Joe. The featured guest sitting at the table happened to be some economist from some magazine who had the solution to this nation's economic woes. It turns out that there are millions of unfilled "blue collar" jobs, like manufacturing or plumbing, that could be filled if we could steer young people to them. Unfortunately, we keep directing people to college, telling them that's the only way to get ahead in the world.

These points made sense, except that just yesterday Joe and Mika interviewed some economist from some magazine that had a different solution to this nation's economic woes. It turns out that there are millions of unfilled "white collar" jobs, like accounting and engineering, that could be filled if we could steer young people to them. Unfortunately, we keep saddling people with low expectations, not realizing that those with college degrees make $1 million more in a lifetime than those without college degrees.

These points also made sense, and I became confused. How can both going to college and not going to college be the right call? What should our teenagers do so that they can fill the jobs that employers need filled? Where should I position my daughter so she can be most successful? We need to direct the young somewhere, but which which path are they destined to follow?

Of course the biggest problem with both economists' solutions is that they left out the most important variable in the equation. With over 40 minutes of air time combined, and not one person mentioned asking these high schoolers where they wanted to go. By following the conversations, it almost seemed that as long as we could agree with an economic ideology, we could just place our young into the career paths that fits society's needs. After all, they're just cogs in our machines.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" used to be such a basic question of childhood. I remember being asked this since I was six or seven, giving different answers during different developmental years. For a while I wanted to be a baseball player even though I couldn't catch a ball. Then I grew into computer programming, then writing, then film and television. Eventually I settled in communications, which is rather abstract field that embodies everything that I was truly interested in (except baseball). And while it hasn't been the easiest path to prosperity, I'm now doing a job that I'm excel at and that I love.

However, I grew up in the empowerment age of the 80's and 90's when hippies were having kids. Nowadays we're in an economic slump, and time's are tough. It's a cold, cruel world where student loans and minimum wage both rage out of control. We have a skills gap and an education crisis to deal with, plus an income disparity that you can drive a Mack Truck through. We need to tell kids what to do, not listen to what they want.

Except have you ever seen a successful person who hates what they do? Do you think Mark Zuckerberg gets up every morning and says "F*&#@$g social media!"? Does Stephen Hawking complain to everyone he meets about the awesome power of the universe? No, they like what they do, and then do it to the best of their ability. Then they get up the next morning and do it again.

That goes for us "normals," too. About two weeks after we first bought our refrigerator, it decided to stop working. After a quick two-hour call to Sears, they sent out a repair guy to see what was wrong. This guy that arrived spent about ten minutes diagnosing the problem, two minutes mending the appliance, and twenty minutes showing me how to fix it myself if the problem ever happened again. It turns out that he's been a repair guy for 23 years, and he loves it. In fact, he turned down a job managing the service shop because he'd "rather fix stuff and not fix people."

We all have friends like that who get jazzed about HVAC systems, or architecture, or marketing, or whatever. I know my insurance agent is entirely too wound up about annuities, but that's what makes him a great insurance agent. Perhaps we help our rising workforce focus on this mindset instead of trying to fit people into an economic mold. I know employers needs are important, but I believe that they'll still be met while we cultivate some natural passions.

So call it a knowledge economy or a skills economy, I don't really care. I much rather live in the passion economy. I know about 80 million people under 21 probably would, too.

Day 30 -- Tuck me in

2014-02-21T23:31:00.001-05:00

For anyone who has children--or was once a child who was not raised by leopards--you know that story time is an integral part of the bed time ritual. In our family, we allow the Princess three story books, with a fourth story if she gets ready for bed quickly. She can pick whatever books she chooses from her collection in her room provided that they are short and not horribly banal. We then sit on her floor with her in Mommy's lap and Daddy reading her each book, precisely in the order she dictates.

For the last few weeks one book has been a staple of hers, and therefore been read over and over again. Tuck Me In by Dean Hacohen offers a simple tale of animals lying on a pillow ready to be tucked in. The Princess can do that by flipping over a half sheet of paper that serves as a blanket, and then repeat the process with another adorable animal. The dialogue is incredibly simple, so perfect for younglings who are starting to read words. Every animal tuck in has the same dialogue:

Narrator: Who needs to be tucked in?

Baby Whatever: I Do

Narrator: Good night, Baby Whatever. Who else needs to be tucked in?

If you don't believe me, see the pictures below. (We'll talk about your trust issues later.)

Although, the story must have been a little tame for the Princess. I say this as she she has started to add angst-ridden dialogue for the various animal sleepers. The story now has grown into problems revolving around sleep toys and a rather hungry alligator (who gets "tucked in" on page 7). And while the story changes on a nightly basis, tonight it went a little something like this:

Narrator: Who needs to be tucked in?

Baby Pig: I do!

Narrator: Good night, Baby Pig. Do you have you sleep toy?

Baby Pig: No.

Narrator: What happened to it?

Baby Pig: Alligator ate it.

Narrator: Oh, no. What did you say to him?

Baby Pig: I said, "Don't eat my sleep toy!"

Narrator: And what did Alligator say?

Baby Pig: Yum.

Narrator: That's ok, we'll make you another one in the morning. This time it won't be made out of food. It will be made from plastic. Who else needs to be tucked in?

Unfortunately, we do not know why Alligator eats the toys. It's probably that all the animal's toys are made from a meat-based product. Or he could just be a jerk. Whatever the reason, he's been on a tear lately and shows no remorse.

I do know that a book that used to take 3 minutes to read now takes about 15. And even though we read it so much that the binding has come loose, the story seems fresh and surprising every single night.

Day 29 -- What a guy needs

2014-02-18T23:41:00.000-05:00

Lately I noticed the word "need" floating around the castle lately. It's a weird word to notice, since it's usually pretty mundane. However, with the right context, it conveys an urgency that no other word can substitute itself properly. For example,. "I'm going to the emergency room," makes you seem like a wuss that can't stand a little blood. "I need to go to the emergency room," lets everyone know that your liver just fell out one of your orifices.

In my case, the word mostly comes from the three-year-old child who never wants anything, but needs everything. For a snack, she needs cheddar bunnies. She needs to watch the same Phineas and Ferb episode over and over and over and over. Tonight she needed me to hang myself backwards off the bed so she could slide down me like she was on the playground.

Every single need ends up life or death with her. Suggest that she not slide down onto my neck just because she needs to "practice her sliding," and it's a ten decibel scream. With her reaction, you would think that I just told her that Santa Claus actually hates her or Mickey Mouse had only 10 weeks to live. Abraham Maslow developeda hierarchy of needs, and unless my psychology professor lied to me, "pouncing on the dog" wasn't on the list. According to the Princess, though, it is right between breathing and shelter.

I've been told that the child will eventually outgrow these irrational needs. However, now I'm attune to the word "need" and I see irrational needs all around me. I did an informal, unscientific assessment of what people need me to do last week, and I have to say, the hope of developing a more sophisticated set of needs doesn't look promising.

Here's just a few things people needed me to do:

I need to read this book: Unless it's a book about getting thinner, younger and richer without getting my fat ass off the couch, I'm pretty sure I don't need to read it. The only reason you want me to read the book is so I can agree with you on how good/bad it really is. Basically, you need me to read the book to validate your opinion.

I need to buy this product: I usually only watch commercial TV during sporting events, mainly because I can get most of what I want (bad 80's sitcoms) on Netflix. With the Superbowl and Winter Olympics on this month, there's a lot of things I now know that I need to buy. Or do the companies need me to buy their crap so they still have profits?

I need to see what x political party is doing to America: I'm happy humming Funky Town to myself in a perfectly spherical bubble of ignorance. America is not the most divided it's ever been -- that's the Civil War. One person cannot burn down the ENTIRE country. And as far as I know, most people are too busy working to worry about who's screwing who. It's really the politicians who need me to pay attention so they can get my vote.

I need to get on board: OK, Mom. I don't even know what method of conveyance I'm supposed to get on. A luxury liner? I'm down with that. A garbage barge? I think I'll pass. Why don't you give me a little more information of what you actually want from me? When I hear this, usually it means that someone me to shut up and let them do whatever they want.

I need to take out the garbage: Yeah, this one's true. It stinks and I think that it tried to eat the dog earlier today. I already had the garbage standoff with the Queen early in our marriage, and she's content to stack cans and boxes on the counter until it reaches the sky. So if I want a clean house, I have to take it out.

I guess we all live with unreasonable needs. I know every once and a while I need a drink or a new set of titanium golf clubs (*hint, hint*). Some of us need a day out or a romantic night in. Almost every day someone tells me that they need a vacation. Even the Joker in Tim Burton's Batman exclaimed that "This town needs an enema."

And right now, I need to end this post so I can get some sleep. So I will.

Day 28 -- The art of saying the wrong thing

2014-02-17T22:50:00.000-05:00

I once heard that 96% of all human verbal communication comes from non-conversations. At least I think I heard that. Maybe I just contrived that percentage. Could well be, since 86% of all stats are made up.

Whatever the percentage, most of our talking comes with predefined scripts that happen automatically. For example: when I'm at the store and check out, the cashier should tell me to "Have a nice day." In which I reply, "You, too." I don't even have to think of a response; it just happens. My brain actually hears Charlie Brown's teacher, and issues the generic statement when there's silence. I know this routine because it happens every single time I go shopping.

Except when some rebellious ne'er-do-well mucks up the whole shopping experience. I just paid $68.35 for some printer ink and wiper fluid, received my receipt, and ready myself for a hearty "You, too." But instead of hearing "Have a nice day," I hear, "Thanks for shopping with us." That's not part of the plan!

My brain already heard the silence and blurted out the "You, too." But that makes no sense. She didn't go shopping. I went shopping. And even if she did happen to go shopping, it was with me. "You, too" sounds like she just bought a watch out of my trench coat. Or, perhaps I'm some crazy man who thinks he's actually the cashier. What am I doing with her groceries? And where is her change?

I can't take it back, because she already started ringing up the twenty-seven Power Bars that the dude in back of me needs. What am I going to say, anyways, that would warrant such an interruption.

"Uh...excuse me miss. When I said 'You, too,' I thought you said 'Have a nice day.' In fact you said, 'Thanks for shopping with us.' These two sentences sound nothing alike, but since I'm such a poor listener, I blurted out something completely nonsensical at the time. I guess I should have said 'You're welcome' or 'No problem' or something like that, but I didn't. I just want to clarify my position on the whole conversation thing that just happened. So...have a nice day?"

That would probably get me escorted out by security. Or beaten up by the bag boy who thinks he's her boyfriend, even though they've only spoken once outside of work. Or scowled at by a line of angry shoppers who also can't figure out how to use the U-Check.

Instead, I'll just slink away with my head slumped low and my pride bruised. I'll try to convince myself that nobody noticed, but I know an awkward silence when I hear it. We both know what happened, and there's no rectifying it. That conversation will just have to eat away at me for 37 years until I have an aneurysm in my sleep.

Plausible, since I hear that 74% of all non-conversational screw-ups lead to death. At least I think I heard that.

Day 27 -- Remakes that don't suck

2014-02-17T00:18:00.004-05:00

If you haven't been aware, Robocop came out this month and disappointed a whole bunch of people. There the kids who wanted something grittier than a watered down version of Iron Man. There's the folks who can't stand a special effects extravaganza just to pimp a new franchise. And there's the 80's Robocop purists that believed that nobody should every dare to make a remake of such a perfect gem of a movie.

And, all of them yelling, "Is Hollywood all out of original ideas? Stop with the remakes!"

But are all remakes bad? My first answer is "Yes! God, please, stop with the crappy-crap!" But when you think about it, some remakes are actually enjoyable. And I'm not talking about making a foreign film into an American film. We Americans hate subtitles and actors whose names we can't pronounce. I'm talking about remaking a good Hollywood movie into another good Hollywood movie.

Remakes happen in every genre, and here's some that work:

Action
Gone in 60 Seconds: I would have gone the Italian Job, but since the original was English, that's still a foreign flick. Gone isn't the best action flick, but any action film that makes you forget about Nicolas Cage's acting has to be a great remake. And it made a crap load of money.

Sci-Fi
Invasion of the Body Snatchers: Science Fiction has to be the easiest to remake because a.) technology can up the special effect ante and b.) you can really screw with the source material. I saw this movie as a kid, and Donald Sutherland still freaks the hell out of me.

Comedy
Ocean's 11: George Clooney out Rat Packed Sinatra and company. It's one movie that I watch to the end when I see it on TV. Unfortunately, it spawned two inferior sequels.

Romantic Comedy
You've Got Mail: Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan bicker as a mega-book conglomerate and an independent book store. I love the way the mega-book store wins without an apology, the unabashed commercial for AOL, and the way people still went to book stores. If it was made today, you would have someone working for Amazon.com bickering with someone from Radio Shack. Oh, and our wedding song came from that movie.

Drama
True Grit: Love both movies for different reasons. The original because it's a John Wayne flick, and all John Wayne flicks are awesome. The remake because Jeff Bridges is excellent. I don't like any of the main characters, but I'm so interested in what they're doing. If you do something right for the wrong reasons, does it make it all right?

Romantic Drama
An Affair to Remember: I actually didn't like Affair, or the original Love Story, or the second remake Love Story. But Affair to Remember inspired Sleepless in Seattle, which has Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. Is there anything those two can't do (beside Joe Vs. the Volcano).

Musical
Little Shop of Horrors: A weird musical to remake which works wonders and put Rick Moranis on the map. Annie comes out soon with Jamie Foxx as Daddy Warbucks (renamed Benjamin Stacks). Hoping more of a Little Shop and less of a Hairspray remake.

There's more, but do your own research. A remake is no different than any other movie. It still needs a great script, good actors and a competent director to succeed. And it doesn't hurt to throw Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in there, too. They're old, but I still want to believe!

Day 26 -- Why you should celebrate Valentine's Day

2014-02-16T00:00:00.000-05:00

I guess yesterday was supposed to be Valentine's Day, better known as the day where we tell our special someone how much we love them by giving them something pink and fattening. The day originated when St. Valentine came down and from the clouds and showed the celibate Romans how to party down with some sappy greeting cards, over-priced chocolates and a Barry White CD. Legend has it that if Valentine's Day happens on a full moon, those crappy chalk-tasting candy hearts will actually cure leprosy.

The Queen and I have a love-ambivalence relationship with the ol' V-Day. While we like the idea of having a spot where we feel compelled to actually say "I love you," we are too cheap to actually do anything on February 14th. Instead we generally wait a week or so after Valentine's Day to celebrate our love because chocolates are 75% off, flowers return to regular price, and we can actually get a reservation at a fancy restaurant. Besides, I'm much more of a Sweetest Day guy. (That's the one in October of September or somewhere around there, right?)

However, this year we decided to up the ante because we have the child. For some reason we thought that if we didn't celebrate Valentine's Day "right," she would grow up to be a heartless, mean old lady who despises love in any form. Without her heart-shaped box of chocolates, she would slip into an endless malaise that triggers a series of events in her adult life:

First, she would become a shut in who surrounds herself with oodles and oodles of cats.

But after her nosy neighbor complains of the constant meowing, the health department takes all the cats away leaving her with nothing but festering rage and an electrical mechanical degree from DeVry University.

She then creates the Deloveinator, which will empty the love two people have for each other FOREVER.

She'll zap celebrity couple ~~Miley Cirus and Liam Hemsworth~~....~~Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones~~....~~Danny DeVito and Rhea Perlman~~...(Wait, those two are back together. It's nice to see.) Danny DeVito and Rhea Perlman it is.

The public will witness the tragedy. And, without the love of Danny and Rhea, the world will fall into deep despair.

Valentine's Day will be over. Hallmark will fold. Walmart and Target will conspire together to develop a new holiday so it can sell Hating Day hatchets, Hating Day Voodoo dolls, and Hating Day chocolates laced with cyanide.

The President of the United States will want to help the sagging economy by partaking in the new tradition and will end up up in jail after poisoning the Queen of England.

I'm not sure if I could live with being the catalyst for regicide, so we bought the Princess a video game (Kinect Animals), a mini heart-shaped box of chocolates, and a card. She now LOVES Valentine's Day and the world is safe for another year.

As for the Queen and I, we ended up eating chips and salsa in bed watching Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee and were asleep by 11. Who said romance is dead?

Day 25 -- California makes me sleepy

2014-02-14T23:59:00.000-05:00

I live in Ohio, which happens to lie in the Eastern time zone. I have to work with someone who happens to live in California. You would think, "No problem. The internets make all things possible." That's what I thought. I was wrong.

Perhaps it's the nature of my work. Sometimes when you do web work, you get in a habit of doing it on the off hours. Most days I update websites before nine or after seven, so not to interfere with regular business hours. I never thought that those in California would also try to avoid high traffic times. But in their case, they have a three hour lag.

Doing business with someone in Pacific time takes grit, determination and a slide rule. You can't talk to them in the morning, because 9:00 AM Eastern time equates to 6:00 AM Pacific time, and people don't like coming into the office in the butt crack of dawn. You might as well sleep in and play video games until lunch. They ain't coming in until noon. And they're crabby until 2:00 or 3:00 PM.

But they have no problem calling you to work on something at 7:00 PM, right when you're sitting down for a fine dinner of chili and six dollar wine. Hey, it's only 4:00 PM in the land of sun and mudslides, what are you trying to do? Spend quality time with your kids? Get to work, you schmuck! That's because time code etiquette only work in reverse. We can do subtraction in time, but addition would blow our minds.

So when you're a web guy and you have to wait for another web guy on the west coast, you're talking about working on stuff between midnight and 2:30 in the morning. You don't think about that, though, when you start your day. Time zone math sneaks up on you like a ninja, only pouncing right when you start to pack it in for the night. "Well, I'm done...CRAP!"

The next day you still have to get up at your usual time, because you don't live in California. With three or four hours of sleep, the child wakes you up to go to school or something lame like that. You hoist yourself up, and shuffle to the coffee pot like it's your only hope for salvation. Unfortunately you forget the cup and the coffee runs over the edge of the counter and fills your slippers with scalding hot liquid. Better be home from the hospital by dinner, because California doesn't care.

Moral of the story: time zones ruin feet.

Day 24 -- An unexpected journey

2014-02-12T22:00:00.000-05:00

John Lennon once said that Life is what happens when you're making other plans. At least it might have been John Lennon. Perhaps it was Jack Lemmon who said it. It's late and I don't want to look it up. Anyways, no matter who said it, they're wrong.

Life doesn't sneak up on you and quietly overtake you. Instead it winds up like a major league slugger and belts you with an aluminum baseball bat. Whenever you think you're in a groove, that's when life takes over and slams into you, ricocheting you 180° away from your intended target. Finding out you're pregnant. Losing a job. Getting hitched to an internet bride. All things that can happen in an instant without any warning.

I think that these events come as a statement from God that we should never be too complacent. For better or worse, change is inevitable. It's what makes us grow and prosper as human beings, and what drives most major historical events. If England didn't suddenly issue crippling taxes and tariffs, would we be in such a hurry to achieve independence? If Rosa Parks went with the flow, would the civil rights movement have caught fire? If a bulldozer didn't try to level Arthur Dent's house, would he have ever made it to the End of the Universe?

The television will tell you that you should spend every waking minute preparing for these changes by buying gold or some insurance policy. Or at least counter-act the changes by suing someone -- anyone. But that doesn't resolve the issue, it merely gambles on what life changing event will come your way. Placing a large wager on Cancer only prepares you for one out of infinite possibilities. Your changing moment could come as Loses Ear in Benihana Accident. What are you gonna do now?

It's the transitions that really test your mettle, no matter if the change is good or evil. Stomping around and kicking the cat seems to be a popular option for certain personalities. Blaming others instead of yourself. Turning to religion though you've never been to church. Drinking until you pass out. Becoming an annoying beacon of energy that lifts up everything you touch. Baking delicious baked goods. Or my favorite, giving stuff away to all your friends and neighbors named Jack Grubb.

I personally tend to retreat to nostalgia. Something goes amiss in my life, and I'm stocking up on my favorite books, like Winnie the Pooh, Catcher in the Rye, and the Harry Potter series. I tend to hunt down the essential movies like The Natural, Ghostbusters, and The Goonies. The months before my daughter was born, I had to watch every episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show and Charles in Charge. Sometimes when I even feel a major change coming on, I still hum a few bars of:

Charles in Charge of our days and our nights,
Charles in Charge of our wrongs and our rights,
And I sing, I want, I want Charles in charge of me...

I'm sure now that I've found the groove as a work at home dad and blogger extraordinaire that something is about to go down. I've been wearing my official Chicago Bears helmet ready for the blow and have the complete series of The Golden Girls queued up on Netflix. Hopefully it has nothing to do with clowns. They freak the hell out of me.

Day 23 -- When it doesn't pay to get out of bed

2014-02-10T21:14:00.000-05:00

Last night the Princess exhibited the greatest display of temper tantrum that has ever graced our halls. She cried. She wailed. She hit. She kicked. She jumped. She thrashed. She rammed into doors. She disowned me in about 25 ways. All because she couldn't find the "right" Yoga Pretzel card.

The fit lasted about 45 minutes, and if she hadn't tired herself out, probably could have gone on another hour. She was determined to do The Snake yoga pose, but could only find The Cobra pose in her stack of yoga cards. Trying to explain the a cobra is a snake and therefore they are the same move just made her madder, and before long she was in full Hulk mode. And, somehow, the whole affair became my fault.

When the Queen and I got drunk enough and thought that it was a good idea to have kids, we were told that the "I hate you" stage wouldn't start until she turned 12 or 13. "When they're young, they have short fits about things and just cry," they said. "It's those teenage years you have to worry about." Well, my kid must be jerkily gifted because she lets me know that I'm not her family about 5 times a day.

Today started started with my loving child climbing into bed and slapping me in the face and telling me to get out of the house. Then, she tried to dictate what pair of daytime underwear I should go and fetch her while she waited to pass judgement. Unfortunately for her, these strong-arm tactics haven't worked yet. The next hour and a half found her screaming at the top of her lungs that I needed to go and find "the right" pair of underwear, bring them to her like a faithful dog, while she waited and watched iPad.

I drank coffee and watched Morning Joe.

Right now, I'm not allowed to work on my computer, sit on the couch, eat with utensils, or talk on the phone. As someone with a deadline looming and about half of dozen pictures to edit and a Flash movie to compose, my computer is sort of necessary. As it stands now, my day looks like alternating between punishing meanness and then hugging and talking about better choices. When you work at home, your schedule usually is dictated by the moods and leaps of your much younger co-workers.

The good news, the Princess has not outlawed dreaming of being alone on a deserted island. Boy, look at that monkey dance!

Day 22 -- Kittens and Wine

2014-02-09T11:34:00.001-05:00

Last night I went to a fundraiser, because that's what we high society folks do. During the night, the participants forced me to drink a few glasses of wine. I didn't want to do it, but it was for the kids, and so I took one for the team.

Unfortunately, when the Queen and I arrived home last night, I was much too tired to write a post. This morning I'm also much too tired to write a post. However, I'm not too tired to look at random pictures of kittens. And here they are:

You changed my wireless plan? I will kill you!

We're adorable! Give us all your money. PayPal accepted.

Dear Stay-Puft, about your "cat in every bag" promotion...are they edible?

They would go great with my tabby hot chocolate.

Dear owner, sleep with one eye open tonight.

I hate you dog.

What? There was a fly on your nose. And I'm a jerk.

You know, Duck, after this photo shoot, I am going to eat you.

Star Wars, Episode VII. I think J.J. Abrams is mailing it in.