We were picking up food at Ya Hala, which is always full, so we had to park a few blocks away.

We ended up across the street from Montavilla United Methodist Church. It was dark out, so the only thing I could really make out from the church was their fluorescently lit sign — you know, the kind with the movable letters that changes from week to week.

The first few lines said the usual something about worship times and what-not, but it was the last line that really caught my eye.

It read: "God's love passed on here."

Fig A: The church sign in question (artist's conception)

Now, there are three ways I could think of reading this, and given that two of them aren't good, I'm going to go out on a limb and recommend they not use that phrasing again (under the assumption that the sign-writer reads my blog and, well, why wouldn't she?).

The meaning they (hopefully) intended was one suggesting that the love of God is shared in that church, between the members and, presumably, to any visitors. Fair enough.

Of course, "passed on" also means "politely refused", as in, "I was so stuffed after all the turkey that I passed on the pumpkin pie." Which would have the sign perhaps suggesting that, while God's love is no doubt quite nice, most of the members there are too full, thanks. Maybe next Sunday.

And then, there is the even-more-euphemistic use of "passed on", meaning "dead" or "died": God's love came to this church, but, well, it is no more, it is no longer with us.

All of which is a general reminder to churches and those who arrange letters on their signs: please do have a cynical person (as well as, it has been said, a 13-year-old boy) read your message ideas before you post them. Just saying.

Of course, who am I to judge what the Methodists believe? Certainly, the "What we believe" page on their Web site wouldn't rule out the latter two readings, I guess.

Three things that, for whatever reason, stuck in my head on my bus ride into work this morning:

• A man driving a pickup truck with a "Got Chris Isaak?" bumper sticker on it. I ... what? Of all the permutations of that hyper-cliched milk slogan, this is by far the most baffling to me.
• I was reading the third chapter of the book of Revelation, when I was struck by the NIV translation of verse 12: "Him who overcomes I will make a pillar in the temple of my God." I don't think I've ever before seen a pronoun in the objective case start a sentence. I guess that's proper grammar, as it's the object of the verb "will make", but it still made me read it a few times.
• By far the most curious thing that happened was when a man got on the bus at 12th and Powell, carrying a watermelon. Well, half a watermelon. Which was unwrapped. And looked like he'd already been digging into it. The bus driver said something I couldn't hear to him, clearly about how he couldn't bring that on the bus. So the man turned around and chucked the watermelon out the door, into the bushes. And didn't seem all that upset about it, really.

And now, today's completely original (as far as I could be bothered to determine by sharing it with a few coworkers, all of whom appeared to think that I was the first person to say such a thing to them) thought from me: American holidays, what's up with them, am I right?

To unpack that thought, I've noticed that American holidays tend to fall into two categories, which I will crudely dub "native" and "foreign". And, I will claim, the native holidays tend to revolve around eating too much, whereas the foreign holidays are exclusively for drinking too much.

What am I talking about? Well, there's Thanksgiving. Which is almost entirely about overeating, combined with a light sprinkling of dubious history. And Halloween, which is about eating waaay too much candy, though there are a few rituals you have to endure before you can justify your gluttony.

Most of the native holidays are like that, putting on some song and dance so you don't notice all the eating. Fourth of July? Sure, there's fireworks, but don't tell me it's not about the cookout. All summer holidays are about the cookout. Most people don't even have a vague idea what Labor Day or Memorial Day are supposed to be except as proper bookends to the cookout season, marked by sales and, well, eating lots of black-striped food.

But the foreign holidays! If a particular day or time of year is associated with a culture other than America's, it's all about the drinking.

St. Patrick's Day? I'm Irish(ish), gimme a beer. If it'll encourage the cultural distinction, make it green. And gimme another one, for good, um, Irish measure.

Cinco de Mayo? I have no idea what we're celebrating here (hint: it isn't Mexico's independence day, people), but gimme a tequila. Or at least a lousy Mexican beer. Olé.

Mardi Gras? Admittedly, Americans can't bring themselves to associate with the French directly (in spite of the holiday's name), so they glom onto some French culture by way of Louisiana by way of the Canadian Maritime provinces. And celebrate it, naturally, with excessive drinking to the degree that many people forget how their shirts work.

Oh, and Oktoberfest? Despite the confusion about the month in which it should be celebrated, there is no confusion about whether it involves drinking copious amounts of beer. It does. The purists can drink too much actual German beer, though as long as you're having a sausage with your Bud Light (or three), it's all good.

The question this all raises is: what does this say about America? Is it, as my coworker Dorothy wondered, evidence of a still-seething Puritanical ethic? Is drinking too much something only those unwashed immigrating masses do, but I can be excused just this once (twice, or several times a year) for getting blotto in the name of learning about other cultures?

I have no idea. But now I'm hungry for some German sausage.

I was going to write an entry about how, every time I see someone wearing something made of polar fleece or similar material, I want to go up to them and ask, in mock seething outrage, "Do you know how many Muppets were killed to keep you warm and casually fashionable?"

But then I couldn't remember if I'd written about that already (perhaps I commented as much on someone else's blog?), so I googled for the phrase "do you know how many Muppets ..." to see if I could find my own comment. Naturally, I found hundreds of people making the same joke already — and none of them me (at least, in the first page of results ... I'm lazy).

That's what the Internet does: It tells you that you're not original, and then it kicks you while you're down and says you're not even original compared to the bunch of pimply-faced nerds and egotistical Narcissi that comprise the Internet's audience (present company excluded, of course).

I suppose that's not a very original observation, even, but you can bet your bottom dollar I won't be googling to find out if others — including me — have already said as much. Oh no. From here on out, I'm just writing down my own (original, thank you very much) thoughts.

And back-dating them to 1996, so that everyone will be, like, "Oh wow, that guy was the first to think of that, though he didn't show up in the Wayback Machine until this week, which is odd, but that site often has issues, I suppose."

We were driving to an infant CPR class yesterday morning, but I hadn't gotten up early enough to eat breakfast at home, so I had a yogurt cup with me in the car.

I was able to take bites whenever I was stopped at a red light, and I became fairly proud of my ability to eke as much yogurt enjoyment out of every stop as possible, timing it so that I put down the cup just as the light turned green.

Justifiably, I thought to myself, "If I were a Native American, they'd call me Well-Timed Yogurt Cup User."

But then I realized, no, that's thinking too humbly. If I were in Victorian England, I'd be Baron Yoghurt-Cupp. I'd introduce myself to some lady (perhaps even a Lady) wearing some oversized doily and say, "Hello, I'm Baron Yoghurt-Cupp."

And, obviously slightly taken aback (but trying to hide it, according to the mores of the day), she'd say, "Oh, what an interesting name. C-U-P-P?"

To which I'd reply, "Not if I close the door! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!" Oh my, how I'd laugh inappropriately loudly and lengthily. Stupid Victorians.

Not too long ago, I got to hang out with my Australian nephew and family in Houston. He was playing with a toy firetruck which had lots of buttons that made various firetruck and/or safety-related noises — you know, samples of sirens, horns, and various admonitions I believe would never be uttered by an actual fireman.

It was a bit annoying, if only because he kept hitting the same button over and over, but without much sense of rhythm (fair enough, he's a toddler, but it does cause one to wonder if he heard enough Mozart while in utero).

Anyhow, there are those who argue that such toys are fairly harmless, although I would think that the homicidal tendencies engendered in any adults within hearing distance of the continuous, erratic repitition of "Raise up the ladder! Raise up the, Raise, Raise, Rai, Raise up the, Raise up the ladder!" would be enough to label such a toy a safety hazard.

But as so often happens, as I was on the edge of sanity, I was struck by the creative muse — my nephew's annoying toy could be made into my (slightly-less-annoying) musical instrument! Thus was born this song, which I call "Don't Forget Ur Safe-T Gear!"

So when asking yourself, "What toy should I get for Todd's child?" consider this follow-up question: "Would I like to hear Todd playing songs like this on said toy (should that be possible) late at night outside my bedroom window?" Because I think that's an interesting question.

I recently got one of those emergency (or safety) hammers that you can use to shatter your car window (as well as slash your locked-up seat belt) should your car manage to plunge into water or whatever.

It's a mildly morbid item — like life insurance, it involves pondering awful accidents — but given that my car trips frequently take me over the Willamette River, one that might come in handy some day.

But that's not what I want to talk about. No, I want to talk about the piece of paper that came in the packaging for this emergency hammer. Because while there's not much that's funny about a car plunging off a bridge (except in The Blues Brothers, and that's because it involves Illinois Nazis), I still found myself laughing at the instructions to a device to be used in such an event.

And it's quite possible I'm the only person to laugh at these instructions. Not because I'm the only one who would find them funny — if I didn't think you also would, I wouldn't post this here, as I obviously care about you, the reader.

No, because I'm probably the only person, until now, who bothered to read the instructions at all, much less laugh at them — at least ever since the mindless drone from Sector 7-G cranked them out. Or so I'd have to imagine after reading stuff like this:

Fig. A: If I had a hammer ...

So the first thing I noticed upon perusing this fine piece of corporate literature was that they absolutely fail to give the product a name. The header identifies it as "Item #41020", while the introductory paragraph goes by the more oblique "This Bell product" and "your new Bell product". But then by the second header and paragraph, it's back to good ol' "item #41020".

And while it's possible I'm not the only person who has read the instructions for "this Bell product", I'm definitely the only person who imagined how the meeting went when they named it:

Bell employee #1: Well, we could call it the LifeHammer. Which is a bit dull. How about a pun referring to its use in automobiles ... maybe the Auto-Mjöllnir? Though I suppose Norse mythology is a bit passé these days. Perhaps M.D. Hammer, in reference to its life-saving skills?

Bell employee #2: It's a freakin' emergency hammer. We don't need to market it. What's its model number?

Bell employee #1: Um ... 41020.

Bell employee #2: Gentlemen, I give you ... Item #41020.

Bell employee #1: Don't you think people might confuse it with the marketing we're doing for Item #41002?

Aaand that's enough of that. But it's not just the deeply generic name they gave it.

No, it's also the off-tone boilerplate their copy-editing automaton seems to have accidentally left in. Specifically, mentioning "the performance that will bring you continued enjoyment for many years."

This is, of course, the product-information-sheet equivalent of that ancient Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times."

I mean, people, Item #41020 is a device that, according to this very information sheet, "is designed to be used in the case of an auto accident in which the seat belt cannot be unfastened and/or the windows and doors cannot be opened"! I do not want to "enjoy" using it, much less for "many years"!

In fact, I would get much more enjoyment by remaining completely ignorant of its "performance": Does it work? I have no idea, because my car has remained in non-life-threatening condition since I got Item #41020!

And that's all I have to say about that.

This post is all sorts of unusual for this blog, not least of which is the fact that I'm embedding a YouTube video that I didn't even make myself. And yet ... and yet, I think this video — a commercial that NBC elected not to show during the Super Bowl (or so I'm told) — is worth seeing.

I couldn't tell you thing one about CatholicVote.com or if I agree with anything else they do — given that I'm not Catholic, I'd bet that we have our differences.

But they've made a compelling video here, and I think it touches more on why I'm "pro-life" than most of the angry text being spilled out there.

Sure, it tugs at the heartstrings — I'm not ashamed to admit I cried when I saw it. And sure, I'm probably more sensitive right now than the average person when it comes to ultrasound images of children in the womb.

But beyond all that, I think the message is spot-on.

I find that, when you haven't written on your blog in three weeks, there is literally no better way to start things back up again than with an awkward title for your new blog post — the proverbial round pun in a square metaphor.

And if that doesn't do it, then maybe an introductory paragraph that reflects on the title of the entry that contains it.

Or perhaps an ever-degenerating series of "meta" body paragraphs that refer to nothing except how the foregoing bits refer to nothing terribly much.

Yes, all these things are key to winning new readers, no doubt. And by "new", I refer to anyone who is reading this right now — given how long it's been since I've written, you're practically new to this blog.

"But Todd," no one in particular asks, "while all this ouroboric snake-gazing-at-its-own-navel drivel is fine, what of the latest trends — 'memes', if you will? Can you tie these two concepts together, perhaps while recycling content in an attempt to buy some time before the inevitable, metaphorical foreclosure on your blog by the bank of popular opinion?"

I can, and I will, brave anonymous interrogator, even if I reject your metaphorical construct — if anything, this blog is merely executing a short sale, as it were.

But, as you requested, pasted below is a copy of my "25 things" list as posted originally on Facebook, where people are literally dying to jump on the bandwagon of telling the world (defined as those college-educated, middle-class folks under 40 who spend too much time on the computer, a.k.a. everyone who matters, am I right?) 25 things about themselves, in keeping with the Internet motto of "Go ahead and post it — I'm sure no one from work will find it."

Okay, fine, they're not literally dying, you pedant, but I'm sure that several people, after reading my list, at least felt a little bit uncomfortable. Let's see if you're one of them:

1. I'd like to pretend that I'm too demure to talk about myself. And yet. In fact, this point actually lets you know that I'd like you to think quite highly of myself, while deep down I do nothing of the sort. It's not like I'm crying myself to sleep in a baggy Cure t-shirt or anything, I just know how much I fail to live up to my own ideals.
2. But I love external validation. You have no idea. When I get approving comments on my blog (or in response to an email, or whatever), I get so giddy that I go back and read what I wrote the first time that caused someone to say something nice about it. This reminds me that ...
3. I can be a bit egotistical. In spite of #1. I know. I'm a gallimaufry of thoughts. Which might lead you to observe that ...
4. I like obscure words. Except when other people use them in such a way that it's clear I'm also supposed to know what they mean, and I don't. Or when I find out that I haven't really used a fancy word properly. I don't like that very much.
5. Before I moved it to the more sensible (and largely more memorable, for those for whom it matters) ToddStadler.com, my main Web domain used to be Cockahoop.com (it's still there, though it redirects), based on my love for that relatively archaic word (look it up yourself), which I would use as a shibboleth (if you will) when I was dictionary shopping. Yes, the move was based, in part, on a need to evade poor content filters, both in software and people's heads. Let the reader understand. [Yes, this totally creates a meta-reference loop, which may cause ruptures in space-time. Caveat lector. — Ed.]
6. I'm not very good about editing myself. Actually, that's not true. I frequently edit my blog posts in multiple passes, and some emails — and diaryesque Facebook "note" postings — get nearly as much editing. It's just that I don't know how to shorten my communication. I'm, you know, prolix. Perhaps because, deep down, I think I'm kind of a clever writer. I blame this largely on #2 and #3.
7. I compare myself to other people too much in a competitive sort of way. This was a great source of angst back in my 20s, when everyone else seemed to be doing something amazing at every turn — "Wait, I want to be in a band! ... I want to hike that difficult mountain! ... I want to make art!". My friends are still amazing now that we're in our 30s, but they seem to be more focused on raising families and being nice people, which is something I'm not as competitive about.
8. I don't get nearly as much done in life as I wished I did. I get too easily distracted?
9. I deal with all these personal problems, in part, through my faith, which tells me, quite simply, that I am forgiven for Jesus' sake, and not because I work really hard or am a good person or whatever (cf. #1–9). This is a great comfort to me.
10. In spite of #9, I rarely mention my faith to other people, even those close to me (although I have been known to sneak little hints into corners of online brain-dumps). I often have no idea what they think about what I believe.
11. Worried that this has become overly maudlin or "emo", I will now tell you the completely emotionally-unburdened fact that I have memorized several dozen digits of pi. As high as 120 digits when I was really trying (really, I was actually trying), although I can probably do no more than 50 at this point — the set I memorized in Algebra when I was bored.
12. I also have a weak, if consistent connection in my mind between letters/numbers and colors. ("Synesthesia" is the term for this, though that encompasses much more interesting cases than mine.) This causes me to have mild emotional reactions to the thoughts of certain words or numbers. "Todd" sort of resembles the Irish flag, though in a more garish, creamy sort of way (Sorry Ireland! Sorry Todd!). My phone number, on the other hand, is a pleasing collection of primary yellow, green, blue, and red, like a child's toy.
13. In spite of the fact that I haven't played my drums in two years, I very much still consider myself a drummer. In part because there's never a time when you can't percuss on something. This recent spate of not-drumming has something to do with neighbor troubles and a small house. And probably inertia (cf. #8).
14. I write marketing copy for several emails a month for a gardening publishing company, in spite of the fact that I have pretty much no gardening knowledge or experience (the same could be said for my marketing experience, honestly). I have, however, managed to work in allusions to Alice Cooper, the presidential election, the Gutenberg Bible, and Guns 'n' Roses' "November Rain". Write what you know, they say.
15. My current job ("Web manager" is the title, whatever that means) stems more from what I did in college when I wasn't studying than what I was supposed to be studying.
16. And what I was doing in college at one point was mangling Twinkies in vaguely scientific ways and making a Web site about it: TwinkiesProject.com. That site has brought me more fame — most of it several years past now — than anything else I am likely to do, including the apparently ultimate end of all fame: appearing on TV. About which ...
17. I was on MTV's Big Urban Myth (which as far as I know or care went off the air soon after my episode aired) as a "Twinkies Scientist" or "Expert" or something similarly silly. Still, I got to stay in Seattle on MTV's dime (okay, technically, the production company's) to film the episode. I learned a fair amount about TV production from that trip, almost none of it positive. For example: my bit was filmed inside the camera crew's tiny hotel room, jerry-rigged to look like a studio. We had to stop filming whenever the maids' vacuuming got too loud.
18. I also had someone send me a wheel of Maytag blue cheese, just because of the Twinkies site. It was quite tasty, although I recently found the last, lonely wedge of it in my fridge, years after the fact. Sorry, random Internet benefactor, but I had to toss it out.
19. I have often surrounded myself (or, rather, been surrounded) by amazing groups of friends, at least since high school. And yet, as I have moved on, I've had a hard time keeping in touch with the old group(s) at a level that expresses my love for them. This makes me sad, but it seems realistic. Oops, got emotional again.
20. I love to sing (though I naturally worry that everyone secretly thinks I'm terrible at it — see one of those earlier points I can't be bothered to scroll to right now), and I especially love to harmonize, even and especially on songs that don't have an actual harmony line. I learned to harmonize reading the alto line from the church hymnal to my mom's strong soprano, and even though I'm a tenor, my self-composed harmonies tend to reflect this, I'm told.
21. I have a collection of well over a hundred song snippets or ideas that I recorded a few years back, and which I still would secretly like to make into full-fledged songs. Not including the various recordings I've left for myself (and largely forgotten about) on mini-tape-recorders, old answering machines, voice mail, and transcribed (often poorly) onto some scrap of paper, just so I could stop thinking about the tune running through my head without fear of losing it forever. Ha.
22. I like beer quite a bit, and I'd step over my own mother just to get one. It's one of the few foods or drinks I've gotten pretty nerdy (read: "snobby") about. I especially like our hoppy, flavorful Northwest beers.
23. As to the first sentence of #22, I'm prone to dropping Simpsons references (e.g. "load-bearing poster") into my speech unannounced, to likely only my amusement. It's one of the few TV shows I've watched a great deal of, though I stopped watching it years ago.
24. I love to travel, although for various reasons (which, surprisingly, I won't actually list here), I have tended to limit my travel abroad to Western and Central Europe. I have yet to visit a place that wasn't worth visiting, though there were a few places I probably wouldn't return to. I sometimes wish I'd traveled more to other continents, but I can't tell if this is because of what I want, or because I don't want to be judged by all the great people I know who've traveled to those places. Uh-oh, that sounds dangerously frank again.
25. This list wasn't as funny as I'd hoped it might be when I sat down to write it. If I were to type this list on a different day, it may well have contained a completely different 25 points, so don't consider this list definitive by any means.

Well, that should take care of things on this blog for a month or so. Until then, I'm: incredibly lazy.

A while back, the folks at Portland General Electric sent us a letter. It said something about a billing error, and how they'd fixed it, and the difference wasn't all that big, and I didn't care: Thanks for fixing your small error, and thanks for telling me about it, but the cost to send this out was possibly as much as the billing error.

What I didn't apparently notice (if this was indicated in the letter at all) was that we got two bills from PGE in the past week, both of which I promptly paid, even though one said it contained a correction for the previous bill. What can I say — I may not read my mail very closely, but I'm usually pretty good about sending checks off to corporations demanding money from me.

But I hadn't worked this all out when I called PGE's customer service line. Not that it mattered too much, as evidenced by the following transcript of our conversation.

PGE: Portland General Electric, can I have your account number?

Me: [Account information]

PGE: Thank you, and with whom am I speaking?

Me: This is Todd Stadler.

PGE: Hmm. We don't have you listed on that account.

Me: Oh, well, I'm Julia's husband.

PGE: Well, Julia hasn't even informed us she was married [we still get the bills in her maiden name], so I can't share very much information with you over the phone. What you'll want Julia to do is have her call us and add you to the account.

Me: I know her Social Security number and birth date and all, so I can probably do that ...

PGE: Right, but you'll want to have her call us.

Me: Is there something you need besides that information?

PGE: Well, we want to have Julia call us.

Me: So you want to hear a female voice give you that information.

PGE: No, we just want to talk to Julia.

Me: Yes, but how will you know it's her?

PGE: Well, she'll have her Social Security number and birth date.

Me: Yes, but I know her Social Security number and birth date, since I'm her husband.

PGE: Right, but we need to talk to Julia.

Me: So you just want to hear a female voice give you that information that I have?

PGE: No ...

I think I went a few more rounds with the guy, but he never actually specified how they would identify Julia when she called, other than the information I already had. Clearly, I'd already identified myself as "Todd", but I strongly considered hanging up, calling back, and saying I was Julia.

Instead, I merely let the idea play out in my head. I particularly liked the part where the customer service agent struggled between an attempted security breach on the one hand (this voice does not sound like I'd imagine a Julia's voice would) and a potential discrimination lawsuit on the other (for assuming that such a voice could not be a woman's).

In the end, I had to go to work, and I realized why I'd gotten the second, corrected bill while I was on the phone. Oh well.