A Young Santa

When Emily and I go to restaurants, children will often stare at me. My best guess is because they see me as a young Santa.

So, to fulfill my promise of a mid-month MaBeGroMo photo update (which is to say, this is 16 days of growth), I will let you be the judge. Young Santa:


But this picture is shadowy. It does not do real justice to the fullness of my beard. As a favor to you, I have highlighted where my beard ends and the shadow begins. I think you will be impressed:

Social Media and the Expert Opinion

I run the social media program for a nonprofit in St. Paul. This has been a rewarding experience and I have learned much. But there is one thing I am struggling with and would like some advice on.

My nonprofit deals with some technical and political issues. And because I have been engaging our followers on Twitter, this means I have recently had to provide answers to some questions that are over my head for both technical and political reasons. I'm not going to leave questions unanswered (that's horrible practice), but I'm not going to BS someone. So I go to the appropriate expert staff member for the answer. I've been able to get appropriate responses within about 24 hours, which, when at-replying someone, is fine.

But now that it's the holidays, and now that we are taking some stances on some sensitive issues, I find myself frustrated. Hard questions are being asked (which is exciting!), but I have no expert staff around to help me answer them, because they are taking some much deserved paid time off. Meanwhile, hard questions go unanswered. What is a social media practitioner to do?

My instinct has been to email the appropriate staff with the question (as per usual) and to make a note to myself to follow up later. But I imagine a time will come when the person asking the question simply doesn't care any more.

Minnesota Comic Chad Daniels on the Tonight Show

On Tuesday night a man from Fergus Falls, MN was on Conan O'Brien's Tonight Show as the comedy guest. I always love when comedians are featured instead of bands.

This dude, Chad Daniels, was funny in a very generic way. He told jokes about his family in a cadence reminiscent of Jimmy Carr (who was also on Conan this summer, apparently), which worked. And while I laughed, this man has done nothing especially notable. He told jokes about how his children annoy him, how he wants to abandon them, and how they are idiots. Honestly, I liked it way better when Louis C.K. did it, like, ten years ago.

But, even so, it's definitely worth devoting five minutes to enjoying, if only for the fact that he is from Minnesota and he was on teevee:

Dream Workplace

Sort of in response to Conner and then Emily's posts about what sort of bar they'd like to operate, and in light of this morning's commute, I would like to share some of my thoughts about the kind of office I'd run if it were up to me.

Armchairs. I always find I do my best work when I'm sitting in one of my armchairs. I would like to bring this into my work environment.

Bigass windows. I love to look out a window, and that enjoyment is increased with the size of the window. Also, natural light is a natural source of happiness and relaxation. Natural light is important.

Full kitchen. This is for breakfast. You can't buy a decent breakfast for less than $10, and I'm not made of money. (Alternately, since the idea is that perhaps I am the proprietor of this office, I didn't get rich by spending $10 on breakfast.) I will roll into the office 30 minutes early and cook biscuits and gravy for myself and all my coworkers using the full kitchen.

Liquor at 3 pm. Let's not be prudes, here. Sometimes I work better when I have an ounce or two of Scotch in me. Sometimes productivity rises midway into a Guinness. And hey! Why not do like the Red Stag does and put a shot or two of espresso in that Guinness? Relaxing and stimulating. This is what we all need at 3 pm, and it's the prudes and jerks of the world who prevent us from having it.

Downtown. My plan is to stay in the Twin Cities, and the public transit system in the area is exceedingly downtown-centric. So, my office will be directly at or within three blocks of most major bus lines, which my house will also be at or within three blocks of.

In Defense of Jimmy Fallon

I would like to take a moment to pose a complaint about Jimmy Fallon on his television program, and then totally refute myself.

Have you seen Late Night with Jimmy Fallon? He sucks at interviewing! He doesn't even let his guests talk. He just jokes around.

YES BUT

Have you ever seen a guest on a late night talk show? They are all vapid actors (save for Brian Williams, Al Roker, Will Ferrel, and Harrison Ford). They suck! Who wants to hear about the cute thing their baby did? Nobody, that's who.

So when Jimmy Fallon takes over the interview--even if he is only mostly funny--and gets the three mentions of the movie or TV show in, I say good work. That is moving things forward in the late night talk show realm.

Give Me a Break, I Got Hit by a Car

In an effort to A) populate this blog with good writing, B) share some of my favorite works published elsewhere, C) maybe drum up some interest in starting a comedy writing workshop group because I miss the old writers meetings from when I worked on the Times New Roman, I am going to be publishing several of my old comedy pieces. Enjoy.

This piece was published in the June 7, 2006 issue of Boston's Weekly Dig.


Last week, I got hit by a car.

Don’t worry, I’m fine. I was walking to Northeastern from my apartment in Mission Hill, and I was going down Wigglesworth (teehee) Street when I saw the T. It was just sitting there, with its door open, saying, “Art! Come ride me! It’s not far to campus, but you might as well be sitting comfortably.” I considered the T’s offer, and decided that indeed I should sit comfortably, as sitting is one of my favorite things.

So I bolted across Wigglesworth (teehee) Street, careful to check to see if there were any cars coming, and sure enough, there were. However, in my haste to catch the T before it left, I performed my car-check only after I had already committed myself to a full-out sprint into the middle of the street.

I decided I could probably jump and let the oncoming car pass under me, à la Mario dodging one of those bullets with a face, but the car was too fast. I slid up the hood of the car, coming to a momentary stop on the windshield; then physics had its way with me, and I was deposited onto the street.

I did a quick mental once-over of my entire nervous system, and nothing was telling me: “Over here! This is where your death-inducing injury has occurred!” I was fine. Nothing was broken, nothing was fractured, nothing was bleeding. Only two parts of my body were remotely in pain: my Primary Impact Zone, the upper right-hand quadrant of my back where I hit the windshield, and my Secondary Impact Zone, my left shoulder where I hit the street.

Wait a minute. I ran into the middle of the street without looking both ways, got hit by a car (as I was warned would happen every day of elementary school ever), and then what? Nothing! What the hell!? I’ve had worse injuries falling off my bike. Onto a bed of pillows. Pillows that feed you candy somehow.

I’ve come up with a few possible explanations for this remarkable turn of events. First, it is possible that I am invincible; after all, I am a 21-year-old man. Second, it is possible that the driver was a puss and didn’t accelerate when he saw me run into the street, but instead slowed down (what a baby). Third, the car that hit me, a Toyota Prius, was probably so wussed-out—since it uses hybrid-electric power and a higher mixture of ethanol instead of burning only pure, delicious gasoline—that it couldn’t do any damage to anyone, ever. I mean, had I been hit by a Hummer or something of equal manliness (I’m kidding, I know there is nothing as manly as a Hummer), I would have been squashed like the pedestrian bug that I was.

It was probably a combination of these elements that allowed me to stand up, brush the dust off my pants, and head directly to my girlfriend’s apartment, where I proceeded to kick her ass at Monopoly (apparently, I was on a winning streak against cars that day). But damn it all if the T didn’t leave before I could catch it.

Yes, I Once Put Bits of Churro in My Beard

There has been some unease about my MaBeGroMo ambition of letting my beard grow for a month. Namely, Emily is worried that I will put bits of churro in there.

"Ha ha!" you might be thinking to yourself, "That Emily! Always with a witty remark, she." Yes, except her concern is not a nonsequitor or other silliness. Her concern is rooted in factual history.

When I was 16, I had a full beard. (Hell, when I was 15 I had a full beard, but this story takes place a year later.) The problem with giving a 16 year old full facial hair privileges is that he will abuse them by growing a chin beard out to four inches long and try to impress his friends with the all the different foods he can fit in there. I don't remember the exact number of churro bits I got in there, but it was in the vicinity of many many.

MaBeGroMo Picture: Day 2

Yesterday I announced that I will grow my beard for MaBeGroMo. I also promised that a picture was forthcoming, and I do not lie. This picture was not taken on Day One of MaBeGroMo, but it's close enough. I give you my unusually long-looking head and The Beard on MaBeGroMo Day Two:


You can expect a MaBeGroMo update mid-month, and then a photo from the 31st.*

*We'll see if Emily lets me achieve the extra goal, set forth by Dyer, of going all the way until Valentine's Day. We have an anniversary in there somewhere, so I'm thinking probably not. But we'll see!

Macho Beard Growing Month

Today, my beard blog subscriptions exploded with the news. (All two of them.) Specifically, this is the fifth year of what Dyers.org has proclaimed Macho Beard Growing Month, or MaBeGroMo. This is in response to the teenage-girl like giddiness everyone had over NaNoWriMo. Did you finish your novel? Was it any good? No and no.

According to Dyer, there are a few rules to MaBeGroMo. You can read them in full here, but to summarize:

1. Take a before picture.
2. Don't shave for a month.
3. Take an after picture.

Be it resolved that, for the month of December, I will not shave my beard, so that it may be macho. My picture is forthcoming.

To the right you will find a MaBeGroMo banner in solidarity with this very important month, complete with witty pun, courtesy of Dyers.org.

If you are unsure, please read Dyers.org's helpful Beard FAQ.

Hate Crime Versus Terrorism

I would like to take a break from the silly for a moment and talk about a serious semantic issue that really bugs me: When is a crime terrorism?

Two years ago, Congress passed hate crime legislation. My problem with this legislation is that is differentiates a hate crime from terrorism.

Wikipedia defines a hate crime as:

Hate crimes (also known as bias-motivated crimes) occur when a perpetrator targets a victim because of his or her perceived membership in a certain social group, usually defined by racial group, religion, sexual orientation, disability, ethnicity, nationality, age, gender, gender identity, or political affiliation.

If we compare that to Wikipedia's attempt at a definition of terrorism, we (I) see overlap:

Terrorism is the systematic use of terror especially as a means of coercion. At present, there is no internationally agreed definition of terrorism. Common definitions of terrorism refer only to those violent acts which are intended to create fear (terror), are perpetrated for an ideological goal (as opposed to a lone attack), and deliberately target or disregard the safety of non-combatants.

Both of these definitions, at their core, translate to: "A person or group of people from a specific group is targeted for assault to send a message to the group at large." The message is usually terror.

I realize this is one area where semantics is of the highest importance. To call something terrorism that was simply a random act of violence would create unjust and disproportionate penalties for petty thugs.

But we should not be so hesitant to call out terrorism when it happens. There are all kinds of terrorism, both domestic and international. Just because a person is white and just because he hates abortionists does not make him not a terrorist. When a person hates homosexuals and scrawls threatening messages on their property to incite fear (another word for terror), that is terrorism.

In short: hate crimes did not need their own legislation because there was already legislation on the books covering these "different" kinds of crimes: they are called anti-terror laws, and any hate criminal should be persecuted under these laws.

America's Next Mighty Caesar

In an effort to A) populate this blog with good writing, B) share some of my favorite works published elsewhere, C) maybe drum up some interest in starting a comedy writing workshop group because I miss the old writers meetings from when I worked on the Times New Roman, I am going to be publishing several of my old comedy pieces. Enjoy.

This piece was published in the October 2005 issue of the Northeastern Times New Roman.

When I was in Rome recently, roaming if I wanted to, I came across a few pieces of a statue carved in the image of an old Roman of some sort. I’m not sure whom it was meant to portray. Maybe he was a Caesar.

The sheer height this stone guy must have been! You’d have to measure him in days, not feet.

That got me to wondering: Why don’t we build things that spectacular any more? Is it one of the many regrettable side-effects of the abolition of unpaid indentured servitude? Perhaps. Or maybe it’s because we don’t have anyone to build monuments to any more.

Consider it. We no longer have mighty Caesars. We don’t even have Pharaohs. We have piddling “presidents” who are “elected” “periodically” by the “public.” There is nothing mighty about that.

I believe monuments are no longer built on the scale they used to be because there is nothing to monumentalize to that scale. All our leaders are half-hearted and lack the commitment needed to be truly great enough for a large monument.

But you know what? You know who doesn’t lack the commitment for glory? Glory on a moon-touching scale? Me. That’s who. I know how to whoop people with blunt and sharp objects. I know how to oppress the poor. I know how to dictate commands to secret police. And I look rather dashing in a flowing toga with a crown of leaves. I have all the qualifications to be the next Mighty Caesar. America’s next Mighty Caesar.

Elections will be a thing of the past as I hurl America into the future. There will be no need for them, because I am willing to rule until the time of my death, whereupon I will be gracious enough to appoint a successor with my full confidence to carry on my legacy.

Taxes will no longer be an issue. I will eliminate all taxes and instead require a tribute of 50% of all material assets. This generous allowance on my part will endear me to the people. However, I will set out the military if needed to keep people from giving more out of their great reverence for me. A line must be drawn.

America’s divisive foreign policy will be a debate of the past. I will have a foreign policy everyone can agree on: It’s ours and we’re going to take it.

I will also solve several problems you didn’t know were problems. October will become Arttober. The streets will be torn up and filled with delicious mounds of salami, and mailboxes will be stocked with mustard for convenience. I will go farther than making clothing optional; I will make it illegal. Except for old people. And fatties.

Then, and only then, will I be ready for my monument. We will dig up the entire state of Kansas (will you miss it? I know I won’t), and from its dirt form clay, and with that clay build a true-to-life representation of my bulging muscles and rugged, manly good looks ten million days tall! Then, with the top ten best sculptors in the world, we will carve my face into the moon so the entire world will always remember the Mighty Caesar Art.

All hail Mighty Caesar (me)!

A Longer Beard Does not Make You a Champion. A Cage Beard Does.

Today, Emily sent me a video from the 1991 National Beard and Moustache Championship in Tacoma, WA. When the video first started, I figured here's a guy whose girlfriend let him grow his beard for six months instead of two. He's got a long beard, sure, but it's all scraggly and unkempt. Maybe that's how these people roll, maybe not. I know for a fact that my beard is significantly more luxurious than that, and if all they need me to do to win the prize is grow it out for six months, show me where to sign up, I'll happily take their prize.

But then I got schooled. I got schooled hard. If there's one lesson I've learned in life, it's this: There is always someone more badass than you. All I will say is: Beard Gate. Behold:

Travel Abroad

In an effort to A) populate this blog with good writing, B) share some of my favorite works published elsewhere, C) maybe drum up some interest in starting a comedy writing workshop group because I miss the old writers meetings from when I worked on the Times New Roman, I am going to be publishing several of my old comedy pieces. Enjoy.

This piece was published in the February 2005 issue of the Northeastern Times New Roman. The photo used here was the photo originally intended to be used with this piece, but was not the photo used in publication.

As a college student, you will probably be doing a lot of travel over the next three or four years to Europe, Asia, and Canada. World travel is the best gift you can give yourself (after perhaps a 4-wheeler or a PlayStation 2), but before you embark on your journey, you should know a little more about how to travel. If this is your first time traveling, you will probably want to travel somewhere in Europe, because if there’s any reason to travel to a foreign country, it is to closely emulate the environment you’re used to.

First you are going to have to decide on a destination. As an experienced world traveler I can tell you all European cities are the same, so get out your map of Europe and a dart.

So you’ve hit Vienna. What’s that? Oh, it’s in Austria. No, Austria, no kangaroos. No, not the other England. You know what? Just throw your dart again. Ah, good, Rome.

Rome is the cultural political fashion history capital of the world. All you need to know about Rome to understand its vast historical significance is summed up in the B-52s classic Roam If You Want To, which both Hillary Duff and Mary Kate and Ashley Olson have cleverly used in movies about Rome.

You will need to buy your airline tickets. Let me tell you, international business class is the only way to fly. If you can’t afford business class (and you still want to go), you can always fly what airline companies quaintly call “economy class.” Let’s just say supply is never more than demand.

When you arrive at the airport (at least 24 hours in advance for international flights), you should check your luggage (otherwise it can’t get lost), find your gate (and number and a letter?! Information overload!), and sit patiently. You’ll undoubtedly get restless sitting at the gate. This is the perfect opportunity to get started on your vacation shopping!

The airport is full of reasonably priced shops filled with friendly staff. Here you can buy anything from a Snicker’s bar ($7.00) to extra luggage (5 souls). If shopping is not your thing, you can watch (but not listen to) one of the many airport TVs showing a program you’d rather not watch.

Once you’ve boarded the plane, sit patiently through the flight crew instructions (yes, they still do that) and get ready for an excitement-packed flight! If second-run family movies aren’t your idea of a good time, you can always enjoy your complimentary issue of Sky Mall, the on-board catalogue of items for purchase. The selection in Sky Mall is vast, including puppies, houses, and mail-order brides.

After the eight hours of whacky fun (a.k.a. your flight) you will deboard the plane. Now you are in Rome! You will wait patiently at the luggage carousel until everyone else has left with their bags. Then you will report to lost luggage. Here you will discover that your bags have gone to Vienna, where the airline company though you had intended to go. They also will not be able to get your bags back until three days after you return home. Don’t worry though, you didn’t come to Europe empty-handed! You just arrived there that way.

The bad news is now you don’t have any luggage (don’t you wish you had bought extra at the airport?), which means you don’t have any clothes. The good news is: wardrobe overhaul! If you can’t afford Italian designer prices, don’t worry, Italians have second-hand clothing stores too.

Once you arrive in Rome you will probably want to see the sites. Don’t waste your time on things like the Coliseum or the Roman Forum, you have probably seen plenty of pictures of these things already. It’s not worth the 10 Euro to walk through something you have already seen pictures of, even if it is old.

My suggestion is that you rent a car and drive to one of Italy’s many topless beaches. Don’t worry, you don’t have to take your clothes off, you can just sit and observe with your binoculars from afar. I must warn you, however, there is no bouncer or other approval process for admittance onto the nude beaches. This means old ladies with droopy racks can take their shirts off. Yuck.

But Art! I don’t speak a word of Italian! How will I get by? One word of advice, my friend: Italians love when you talk down to them, especially in English. But if you’d rather make the effort to speak Italian, here’s a simple trick: just add “O” to the end of every word. Youo willo beo talkingo Italiano ino noo timeo!

I have found that Italy is best enjoyed from indoors, especially the inside of a hotel room. With such exciting features as CNN World, miniature bottles of alcohol, and a bed, hotel rooms are non-stop thrills. If you get homesick while in Italy, don’t worry. Just go into a McDonalds; their employees barely speak English too!

Although they wish they could, Italians do not accept American Dollars. This means you need to find an exchange booth and exchange your real money for Euros. Just think of them like Disney Dollars: they are all sorts of pretty colors and the conversions don’t add up nicely so you spend more than you think you are spending. By the way, all Europeans prefer it when you refer to American Dollars as “real money.”

By the time your trip is finished, you will probably spend most of the money you have. When you finish shoving and breaking everything to fit into your new suitcases, it is time to go to the airport and get back to real civilization.

On the airplane you will be asked to fill out a few customs forms for reentry to the US. These forms are simple, but if you do it wrong you are obviously a terrorist seeking entry for devious reasons. You will be detained indefinitely.

In Defense of the New Retweet Feature

Another something has changed on the Internet, so wouldn't you know it, everyone is upset. But the latest major Death of the Internet--the retweet reconfiguration--is a positive change. It is a positive change for more than one reason:

• It preserves the author's intent by preserving their tweet exactly as they wrote it. How many times have you had to truncate someone else's tweet to accommodate for their user name? The original tweeter picked their words carefully, and although it has become an accepted practice to remove select words to make room for retweeting superfluence, that's actually terrible citation practice. As a writer, I love the preservation of intent.
  
• It draws attention to new personalities. More times than I can count I've scanned a tweet and replied to the person who posted it, only then to realize they were retweeting someone else. Putting someone else's user picture, username, and full tweet in my stream forces me to pause and consider it, which is the (presumed) intent of the retweeter.
  
• It does not violate your personal space, so shut up. I've heard that some people find this new feature intrusive or otherwise violating of their personal Twitter space. This is total bullshit. Retweeting has been around since Twitter has been around and it was not considered a violation. Retweets have always been content in your stream put there by people you choose to follow. This has not changed in any way: the content is tagged as "retweeted by so-and-so." Honestly. It's the same thing.
  
• You add nothing of value to a retweet. Another major complaint about this change is that retweets are no longer able to be annotated. But here's the thing: do you really add value when you add "love this" "check this out" or "smart" to a retweet? You do not need to add an extra text to endorse a retweet. You are retweeting it; that is an endorsement. And if you really need to add your own commentary within the tweet (have we forgotten there are venues for commentary outside of Twitter? Maybe you could blog it!), they did not somehow deactivate the old way of doing it. People will still know what you mean if you type "is this you in this video lol RT @username blah blah blah."
  

Emily Watches Star Trek

For three months this past summer, Emily was unemployed; this gave her ample time to watch DVDs while applying for jobs. After a single cajole by your humble author, Emily was convinced to sit down with the entire seven seasons of Star Trek: The Next Generation and watch them from Encounter at Farpoint to All Good Things... Since this is the 21st century, she was on gchat, keeping me up to date on all the latest.

Following are some of my favorite exerpts from Emily's first viewing of any Star Trek television series.


Emily: MAN IN SKIRT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Later]

Emily: MORE MEN IN SKIRTS
they're in some sort of dress uniform and all wearing skirts
me: well those are not skirts though
because they are wearing pants
those are just long jackets
Emily: well when hipster girls wear leggings they are still wearing skirts

---

Emily: the Picard doppelganger almost had sex with Dr. Crusher
Me: wait, there's a Picard doppelganger?
Emily: yeah he got kidnapped
with three other people
and a doppelganger was running the ship
Me: oh yeah
Emily: and now he apparently needs a vacation

---

Emily: Picard has spent most of the current episode in a metallic Speedo
me: haha
Emily: he also just punched a Ferengi, which I enjoy
me: I believe he will get it on in this episode
Emily: it's looking that way

[Later]

Emily: picard DID IT

---

Emily: this episode is WEIRD
me: which one is that?
Tin Man?
Emily: no, the one after that
there's this awkward engineering guy
who keeps going into the holideck to have sexual fantasies about Troi
me: oh, Barclay

---

Emily: Picard just said "my love is a beaver"
me: haha
oh, is he reciting things to mom troi?
Emily: wait FEVER
his love is a fever
me: haha
Emily: but yes, he was awkwardly trying to pretend to woo her, and then started spouting Shakespeare
me: that scene is classic

---

Emily: well Data is reading poetry
me: ohh
the poem about Spot
Emily: Ode to Spot
he says Spot isn't sentient
I think Bernard is sentient

Internet People

By sheer coincidence, I was asked by American Public Media's Jon Gordon to say a few words about making people friends on the internet for the radio segment Future Tense. About one sentence of mine was used in the beginning of the segment as anecdotal evidence that social media does not isolate people but, in fact, it gives people richer, wider social circles.

And there's no doubt it's true. I've had in-person, meaningful interactions (which is to say they've had something interesting, new, funny, etc to say) with fully 45 people I met through Twitter. That's almost half the people I follow on Twitter who I also know in real life. But more importantly, that's 45 new people in my community I would have very likely not met otherwise. And yes, this includes Emily, who I will have been dating for a year in January.

I was trying to dig for some deeper meaning to this, but I think this is actually pretty profound on its own. This is a the 21st century story.

Surly Darkness: The Max Fischer of Beers

I had a glass of Surly Darkness for the second time last night. I had had it once before and been truly unimpressed. But when our waitress came around and told us the non-"domestic" (don't get me started) beer selection and we heard "Surly Darkness," we all jumped and said "Yes! That one!" Including me. Even though I remember not caring for it.

And, once again, I had it and did not care for it. Because it is the Max Fischer of beers.

Surly Darkness could be good, but it tries to do too many things at once. I don't even know what flavors I'm supposed to be looking for or experiencing. It has so many things going on that not one of them is done well by my tongue. I'm not sure if it's supposed to be a hopstravaganza, if it's supposed to be like drinking a loaf of bread, or if it's supposed to have fruity/woody/spiced overtones. And I'm pretty sure the reason I can't tell is because it does all of these things at full tilt.

So, Max Fischer of beers, I'm not going to say you're bad. I'm just going to say I don't think you're good enough for me. But there are plenty of Margaret Yangs out there.

Quest for a Carryall

In my search for a suitable bag to carry my things, I have come across what is, apparently, a common dilemma for women: how big and how many pockets.

The problem is in the context of the LAPG Tactical Bail Out Gear Bag (Best Seller!). This bag is badass.





This bag is so badass, in fact, that this manly man made a three minute video describing it. It is at worst a hilarious juxtaposition of manliness and what is wrongly considered "femininity" due to the fact that he concerns himself with a bag and its color and pockets, and at best an informative tour of a useful bag:




I want this bag. I want this bag so hard.

But the problem I find is that I already have a bag of this depth and length, but it adds extra width and a lot of extra pockets. It will be useful, but in what scenario? Will it really help me achieve my goal of wanting something smaller than a messenger bag or a computer bag?

Ladies and Enlightened Gentlemen, help me out here. Is it wrong to

A) Have a true carryall
B) Have more than one bag

Our Hurtful Beer Can Holders

There's a Budweiser commercial that talks about a combination foam number one finger and beer holder. They call it a "foozie," a combination of foam and coozie.

But here's the thing. "Coozie" is a variant pronunciation of the word "cooze," which we all know is:

–noun Slang: Vulgar. vagina.

But that's not all. I asked my mom's boyfriend what he calls a foam beer holder. "Oh, well I call it a 'coolie'."

–noun Offensive. an unskilled laborer, esp. formerly in China and India.'

The word is cozy. Ok? It's a beer cozy. Like a tea cozy, but for beer.

Manlinest City

There has been a study commissioned by COMBOS, "the hearty, pretzel and cracker snack made with real cheese," to determine the manliest city in America. (Incidentally, I most closely associate with my sister, as she would always eat these on road trips when we were kids.) Minneapolis is ranked 18th. They've gotten everything wrong.

Their basic parameters of manliness are as follows:

• Unhealth
• Banality of sports taste (NASCAR-related things were weighted more heavily)
  

Just because you are obese (you eat COMBOS, the hearty, pretzel and cracker snack made with real cheese), that does not make you a man.

Ostensibly, we are trying to measure the manliness of the men in these cities. Minneapolis may not be the number one manliest city, but let's measure based on some real manliness criteria:

• Number of beards, with extra points given for achieving the beard contest criteria.
  
• Total pounds of man-muscle
• Total pounds of beer belly
• Number of cars with flames on them
• Number of men shot in the chest by an anarchist who then go on to give their speech before being driven to the hospital
  

Manliness is not measured by NASCAR.

Let Me Explain Google Wave

Author's note: It's possible that you know all of this. I am writing this down in the hopes that people who didn't get it before might be enlightened by my thought process. Enjoy.

I sought out a Google Wave invitation, not exactly knowing what I was getting into. It was new and I wanted to add it to the list of new technologies I could claim myself as an early adopter of (the list, as I recall it, runs from mini disc to kindle--incidentally, neither lasted very long).

My invitation came on Friday night. I poked it a few times over the weekend, but it ran too slow and there was too much going on at once. I was a member of the Twin Cities Wave and pretty much no other waves. I was confused and I was bored.

(A wave is a message thread made up of individual messages called pings.)

Yesterday I was confused and bored again. But then I joined a few smaller waves with some friends.

Google Wave is the following existing technologies wrapped into one delicious web app burrito:

• Wiki - Anyone can edit any part of a wave and there is a full record of who has done what. This beats wikipedia (or any other wiki I've used) by about a thousand in terms of intuitiveness.
• Message board - A ping (a message within a wave) can be replied to much like a LiveJournal or I Can Has Cheeseburger-style post, with root replies and sub-replies.
• Instant message client - Wave lets you see who is online. It is actually most like the old ICQ, where you can see what another person is typing as they type it. If you open up a wave with one other person--bam. Instant message.
  
• Email - It's not exactly like email, but it really helps to think of it as email: every message is private and includes only the recipients you choose. You can send a wave to a person when they're offline and it will sit in their inbox until they return.
  

These technologies are all a decade old or older. But just because Google Wave hasn't really introduced any new technologies from an end-user standpoint doesn't mean the combination of existing technologies isn't potentially game shifting (but not really game changing, like email was).

It may be obvious how there is some overlap with the functions the items on this list fulfill. But what was not immediately obvious to me is why it's so interesting to slip them all together into one very browser-crashing web application. Here's what I can see so far.

What it will be good for:

• Collaboration - What I never could get wikis to do, Wave does almost effortlessly: one document with multiple editors. Google suggests you use Wave to have everyone at a meeting take notes; maybe smart, maybe dumb. The playback feature is key here--it totally trumps the edit history page on Wikipedia. Much more useful (to me) to see edits progress temporally than see them listed.
  
• Discussion - The problem with message boards is their public nature. The problem with email and Gmail is its linear nature. Wave lets you communicate privately in a message board setting. If you branch off into two topics, no more guessing what a person is replying to--you can create new waves based on old waves. Google Wave provides the sharpest, slickest format for private, lengthy online discussion so far.
  

Wave is important. Being better than a wiki and easier to use for lengthy conversations than email will allow us to have richer conversations more easily. Definite value added. Not a Segway.

There is one problem I can see: the necessity of ubiquity. Sort of like Twitter, there's a critical mass that must be reached before this will be useful to me. I can't collaborate by myself. But give it a year; this thing will be pretty popular but, as I said, I don't think it will change the game on the scale of email.

World Beard Championships

I think everyone ponders at one point or another what sort of awards they could win, simply for their natural proclivities. We're all naturally good at some things, and with a little effort maybe we could be recognized for these talents.

For me, today, my natural proclivity was my beard. I am growing it out for a wedding in November, per the groom's request (it is known as a Sympathy Beard). I have been letting it grow without trim since early September with great success. Emily has pointed out that it's on the verge of being pony tail material. It's thick and luxurious. I figured I should investigate whether or not there is any sort of beard competition. I might place!

No, I won't.

There is a beard competition. It's called the World Beard and Moustache Championships, and there are some manly beards battling for the title.

Look at this man. This is a man.


This is Jack Passion, the World Beard Champion ("first place in the full beard natural category, the most competitive category of all", according to World Beard Championships). Compared to this man, my beard is bush league. This man is a real man, and a real beardsman.

I will say that length should not be all that counts in a beard. I submit the following criteria for beard judging. Please submit your own.

1. Thickness
2. Fullness
3. Softness (softer = better)
4. Style (a manicured beard is no beard at all)
5. Shapeliness
   
6. Luxury
7. Manliness
8. How many bits of churro can you fit in there
   

Handwritten Correspondence

I'm not sure if it's quaintness or intimacy that draws me (and many, many of my friends and others my age) to the idea of writing letters on actual paper and sending them through (snicker, snicker) the mail. But this is a habit I've tried to take up a few times, and each of those times I've enjoyed it immensely. But likewise, it's a habit that has proven difficult to start and, when started, difficult to maintain.

The first part of this problem is motivation and inspiration on my part. I tend to get writer's block that becomes exasperated further by the fact that I have writer's block. In other words, when I can't think of something to write, the threshold for an idea to actually commit to paper becomes impossibly high. This often cripples me to the point of no letters!

Another problem is procrastination. Hand-writing a letter takes time, and it's really easy to tell myself I don't have 30-45 minutes when, really, I have way more time than that. Those 30-45 minutes are spent idly, at best.

The other problem is other people. The problem is always other people.

So, inspired by Conner's recent goal, I propose--for about the fifth time in my life--to start a written correspondence with you. Now that I have identified the traps I fall into (and, as Conner said, now that I have put them into the public eye and will fail publicly if I fail at all), I hope to find it easier to turn this into a habit.

I will offer to start the correspondence, but you are welcome to start as well. Please provide me with your information in an electronic mail to artallen at gmail dot com. Thank you.

This Is Adulthood

I am feeling quite grown up this morning for the following reasons:

• I got out of bed (not just woke up and turned over again and went back to sleep) fully an hour and a twenty minutes before I needed to
• I have washed a few dishes... in the morning!
  
• I am listening to Styx
• I will be getting into work early to set up for a presentation instead of keeping everyone waiting for my fumbling with a projector
• I am on my second cup of stimulant and I haven't even left for work
• I have resisted the urge to play Sim City 4 instead of get to work early

On Gender Inequity

I must say, I get a little frustrated by gender barriers some times. Specifically, purses.

I don’t understand why a woman can use a purse to hold her keys, her wallet, her cell phone, a box of mints, a book, an iPod, a Nintendo DSi, a couple pens, and various papers, while a man must use pockets and look like he has Lumpy Legs.

I know I’m going to catch a lot of flak for this, because “A small bag carried on the shoulder? WOMEN ONLY, MISTER!” And as a man, I have some options for carrying things. But, much like the choice between a basket and a shopping cart at the grocery store, my options, as a man, are either comically tiny or comically massive.

1. Pockets. Barely and room and give you Lumpy Legs.
2. Cargo pants. When I was in 9th grade I wore cargo pants. This was not for fashion, but for utility: I used the hell out of those massive pockets. I put cargo in them. But, that is a thing for young boys. I am a Man now, and cargo pants would be unseemly; it was long ago time to put aside childish things. Also they give you Lumpy Legs.
3. Messenger bag. I’ve been told I can carry a messenger bag, but the only messenger bags I can find are still comparably huge. I don’t need to fish in the bottom of an 18-inch deep satchel when I could have a 6-, 8-, or 10-inch-deep purse.
   

Here’s the thing. When you are a boxer and you punch the other man better than he punches you, that is considered very manly AND YOU WIN A PURSE. It is a purse full of money.

So maybe I can carry a purse. Maybe it just needs to be stuffed full of hundos.

Keep or Sell?

I am having a bit of an internal struggle. I need to be re-sold on my Amazon Kindle.

A little over a year ago, I bought my Kindle. I used it quite regularly; it actually caused me to read more than I had been. I was using the Kindle to its exact purpose: bringing around many books at the same time, reading two or three at a time as suited my fancy, never spending more than ten dollars on a book, and doing it all from my bed.

Recently, my Kindle has crapped out. I stopped using it for about four months (give or take--maybe six? Probably six), and then got so sick of not being able to use it that I called Amazon support, who informed me that it will cost either $20 for a new battery (which may solve the problem) or $180 for a new device.

This has got me thinking about all the things I don't like about the Kindle.

Actually, it's just one thing I don't like, but it's a biggie: I cannot share books. When I read a book that I like (which is most of them, as I usually quickly set down books that I don't like) I become an evangelist for that book and I am usually quick to offer to lend it out once I am finished. That's the nature of the bibliophile, I believe: to be libraries for our friends. The Kindle robs me of this elemental joy.

So, share your insight. Do I stick it out and invest $20 in a device I enjoy using and which allows me to read more books for fewer dollars, or do I sell it on eBay with a bum battery and return to the ways of the physical book?

Lorem Ipsum

Fun with Semantics

I take this sign to mean that, while it may be a violation to park in the lot overnight, I will not be towed if I do.

Why I am moving part 4: my roommates

This post is the fourth in a series about why I am moving. You can read part 1, part 2, and part 3.

When I moved into this house, part of the excitement was that I would be living with artists. I graduated from the Arts High School and I missed having artists around. The fact that I would have six roommates was actually counted as a plus in favor of moving into this house. Surely at least some of the six people will be interesting, fun artists to hang around with on a Friday night.

That excitement lasted for about a week.

When I first had Emily over to my place, the first thing she heard, shouted angrily from another room, was "You don't know shit about Burning Man!" Hilarious. Truly.

The first week or so I lived there, the girl in the room next to me had a dog. That dog had puppies. Four puppies.

Now, imagine if you took two yard sticks and made an L with them, and then made two imaginary lines that went from each end of the L to the area directly across from the corner of the L. You have a square yard! That is the space all four puppies were living in. By "living" I mean eating, crapping, and pissing. Fully half of the "living" space was covered by pee pads.

It began to reek a foul stench throughout the upstairs hallway. It was nasty. Eventually (and just before I was about to), someone posted a note on the puppy haver's door saying if the puppies weren't gone within 24 hours, Animal Control would be called.

The puppies were gone within 24 hours.

And then there were the passive aggressive notes, including one on the top of the mirror in the bathroom saying "If you're splattering toothpaste up here you're doing something wrong" and another in the kitchen, in February, saying "I've been noticing a lot of people coughing and sneezing in the house. My health insurance runs out next week. Please try to keep the coughing and sneezing to a minimum and be sure to wipe off all surfaces you use. Also, please don't piss or shit on the toilet seat." I assure you, there were plenty of others for this to be--not an annoyance so much, more of a hybrid of amusement and bemusement.

Why I Am Moving Part 3: Common Space Part 2

This post is the third in a series about why I am moving. You can read part 1 and part 2.

It has come to my attention that I have forgotten some pretty glaring aspects of the common space in this house. This is beyond the fact that none of the front doors are ever locked (or even closed), and that there isn't a kitchen table to eat at, and that the living room is not for TV.

First, there's the issue of the refrigerator: there's no room in it. At all. Six other people trying to store their perishables makes for about six cubic inches for me to store my food. This does not leave room for me to bring home leftovers from a restaurant (I've been keeping those at Emily's), nor does it allow me to buy actual fresh food at the grocery store and keep it.

Next, there's the issue of the laundry. Now, I'm loathe to complain, because there is free laundry in the house. However, the laundry is in the basement, where two of my roommates live. Together. This means I must announce myself when I want to do my laundry, and then I must walk through their living space, which has never once been uncluttered or remotely safe-feeling. For example: scissors on the floor, glass on the floor, other sharp, blunt, otherwise potentially painful (to start with) objects for my foot to be bashed, pierced, or scraped by. I ended up doing laundry at Emily's more than once in the past months.

Why I Am Moving Part 2: The Common Space

This post is the second in a series about why I am moving. Part 1 is here.

When I first moved into the house, I was told there were a few simple rules. One of them was no parties, which, while it disappointed me slightly (it would be a great party house), I definitely understood. But I was less clear when I was told, "Yeah, the dining room is really more of an artist space... so precedence is given to our various projects."

Yes, that is correct: "No, Art, you cannot eat dinner at a table like a human being. That is for welding glass together to make a double-vase or something else 'modern.'" And by "modern" they mean pretentious/useless/totally unfunctional and unattractive.

So, I can't use the dining room table. Fine. At least I can have my nice TV in the living room, right?

Nope.

Half of the six other people of the house wanted the TV, half of them didn't. So I decide, instead of causing a fuss, I'd just put my 30 inch flat screen in my room. Problem solved.

Besides, keeping the TV in my room with the door closed is probably a good idea, because the front door is never locked. And by never locked, I mean the screen door and porch door are generally unclosed, and the door to the house has only been deadbolted three times and is only closed about 80% of the time. This means that fully 20% of the time, you don't even have to lift your arm to enter the house where I live.

Why I Am Moving Part 1: Squatter's Rights

About four months ago, I moved into a house in Uptown. Or, more accurately, I moved into the master bedroom of a house in Uptown. (Oddly, not this did not make me master of the house. Somehow.) This seemed like a great opportunity for me: the rent was cheaper than most things I was able to find on Craigslist, the house seemed (and pretty much is) clean. Plus, if it didn't work out, I was only signing a lease for four months.

Actually, that's what I thought. I will be moving out this weekend, after four months of living in this house, without actually having been given a lease to sign.

That's right: for the past four months I have been squatting. There is a reason I am moving out of this house.

Sharks!

And now, I give you sharks.

Land Shark

How Cotton Balls Are Made

Last weekend I went to Milwaukee to meet my girlfriend's parents and to see a Brewer's game. This meant my cat was by herself in my apartment all weekend--just her and her automatic feeder.

Apparently I had not closed the box of Q-tips tightly enough, because when I returned, there, on my floor, was a small collection of Q-tip middles. Next to the small collection was Triskit, gnawing on the cotton end of a Q-tip. She had eaten the cotton off approximately a dozen Q-tips.

She then crapped out a full cubic inch of cotton.

And that, my friends, is how cotton balls are made.

On Living Your Life

There are a lot of articles online that suggest you delete any evidence of having a good time or living your life from all of your social network pages. “If an employer sees a picture of you drunk at a bar, they will fire you!” these articles seem to suggest. “If you mention a hedonistic allowance, if you blog that your favorite movie is Blazing Saddles, if you use a swear on Twitter, kiss your job goodbye.” I reject this sphere of thought.

The Internet blends our personal lives, our professional lives, and our idealistic lives. This is definitely a good thing, but it means that everyone is your audience. On the internet, unlike talking face to face, you can’t have a distinct work persona, bar persona, and family persona. But it doesn’t mean you should pretend to be a flawless, one dimensional person online.

Please, do not read this as a rant against professional responsibility. I understand there is a time to be interesting and a time to be professional. The best of us can exist in the happy grey area between the two most of the time. I try to.

Instead, read this as a suggestion that we all have personal lives, and to sanitize the Internet of our personalities for the sake of seeming flawless to potential clients or employers is ridiculous. If an employer does not want to hire me because I have interesting, honest content on my social network pages, I can conclude one of two things:

1) The hiring manager is holding me to a very harsh double standard

2) The hiring manager is a very boring person

In both cases, I say: who needs ‘em? I want to work with fun people who appreciate personality and a sense of humor.

So I humbly bare to you my presence across the Internet: my website, my Twitter, my Facebook… hell, even my rarely-used MySpace. I have nothing to hide. I embrace my love for Blazing Saddles and Scotch. I (reluctantly) share with you the (mostly unflattering) pictures of me on Facebook. I want you to know that I--like you--am a complex, interesting human being.

Pun #3

A young man played percussion in his college’s varsity marching band. Two weeks before the big football game, the young man was hit by a car and sent to the hospital. After a several days in the hospital the doctor approached the young man and said, “Son, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. We’re going to have to amputate your legs at the knees.” This devastated the young man; he could no longer march at the big football game.

The time came for the big football game and all the young man’s friends were there to see it, despite the fact that he was not marching. They were enjoying the game, when whom do they see but the very young man who had his legs amputated but two weeks before. Confused, they went up to the young man after the game and asked him how he was able to march after having his legs amputated. “Oh,” he said, “I was marching with the feet of a different drummer.”

Twitter Pun Storm: Swine Flu Edition

Yesterday on the popular social networking website Twitter.com, I saw a tweet by @doughamlin that went like this:

@doughamlin *Cough* *Cough* *Honk* *Honk* #swanflu

This inspired me to make all sorts of swine flu puns:

@punsultant @doughamlin *cough* *cough* *swirl* *smell* *sip* #wineflu

@punsultant @doniree @doughamlin or, you know, *cough* *cough* *pickles!* #brineflue

@punsultant *oink* *oink* *smoke* *smoke* #swineflue

@punsultant George Bush was a great president! #swineflew

@punsultant *cough* *cough* *forest* #pineflu

@punsultant @doniree my back is coughing! #spineflu

@punsultant I stepped on this device and all of the sudden I started coughing #mineflu

@punsultant I think my fork is sick. #tineflu

@punsultant as I've been waiting here at the bank I've developed a cough and a fever. #lineflue

@punsultant OR my cough and fever only exist between two points #lineflu

@punsultant I am sick as an objectivist. #aynflu

@punsultant @MHMorgan if I do work I might get #tryin'flu.

@punsultant your lady doctor is sick #gyn'flu

@punsultant I am sick, but only when I'm lying on my back #supineflu

Which, in turn, inspired many others to make swine flu puns of their own:

@maxsparber Argh, I be struggling to catch me breath in the salty deep! #brineflu

@maxsparber @punsultant Funny, I had the same experience waiting to get pork in England #swinequeue

@eigenman @punsultant @zwjohnson I feel awful with this illness... I think I'm going to go lie on my back #supineflu

@eigenman @punsultant fuck I must have missed it while I was sacking Halicarnassus #rapineflu

@eigenman @julielyda @punsultant @zwjohnson but I do so enjoy upsetting you Julie! #malignflu command it in #()flu form and I'll stop :D

@eigenman @punsultant @zwjohnson MUCH better #anodineflu

@briannepitt @doniree @punsultant *sniffle* I can't even afford medication... #declinedflu

@doniree @punsultant @briannepitt *cough* *cough* *moooooooo* #bovineflu

@briannepitt @doniree @punsultant "Bueller... Bueller..." #Steinflu3

@doniree @punsultant @briannepitt *cough* *cough* *meow* *purr* #felineflu

@briannepitt @punsultant *cough* *grumble* *gripe* *sneeze* *exaggerated sigh* #whineflu

@doniree @punsultant I'm a poet and didn't know it #rhymeflu

@zwjohnson @punsultant it's not your fork, it's your food! #dineflu

@chessie @punsultant i got sick because i returned my library books late #fineflu ?

@zwjohnson @eigenman @punsultant I actually feel pretty good #fineflu

@doniree @punsultant *cough* *cough* *river* *europe* #rhineflu

@eigenman @punsultant oh JESUS my hypothalamus just threw up #endocrineflu

I'm sure some swine flu puns have slipped through the cracks. Although, I'm sure you're already pretty full up on your swine flu pun quota for today.

Firfox Spellcheck Fail

Not only did Firefox erroneously tell me a common pronoun was misspelled, it provided me with no help in how to spell it correctly:

That's what I said

I do not see a difference here.

The New Star Trek Movie

Spoiler alert: I saw the new Star Trek movie.

I was at work when I refreshed Twitter. Right near the top of my feed I could see that @vita_mn had said

Vita.mn invites you to BOLDLY GO... tonight at its premiere party for STAR TREK. 2 pairs of tixx available now. Email christian@vita.mn!

And ten seconds later I was in gmail. I wrote

I want them! How do I get them?

and was subsequently informed that I had already done all that was necessary.

And that was it. I had tickets to an advanced screening of a movie I've been anticipating for approximately three years. But not just an advanced screening--eight days before it comes to theaters. Seven days before regular people who win tickets get to see the "advanced" screening. In fact, according to Vita.mn, I am a taste maker. And my taste says this movie was fuckin' boss.

Better than Iron Man. And, yes, Better than the Dark Knight. (Note: I will not compare individual performances. Heath Ledger's Joker was a villain for the ages and was--somehow--way above the rest of that film.)

I will not bore you with spoilers. Suffice it to say the film stays close enough to the spirit of Star Trek to satiate this canon-aware fan. No, that's not right. I'm not just canon aware, but canon expectant. Ok, fine, here's a minor spoiler: this movie breaks canon. But if you really care you probably already knew that, right? I won't bother reviewing something you haven't seen past saying it was even more badass and fun to watch than the ads make it look. I dare say it nearly surpasses both Star Trek VI and Star Trek: First Contact. Nearly. If you wanted to determine which was the best of the three, you'd probably have to toss all of them in the air and see which one landed closest to the center of a target that denotes quality. That is how good this movie was.

I'm going to hold off on full-on analysis of the movie until I see it again next week (and when everyone else has seen it). However, I would like to note the demographic makeup of the crowd who saw this movie with me. This screening was made up of people who were in the know (plus me, Emily, and the other two people who were fast enough to get tickets from Twitter) about this movie, according to Christian. The rest, apparently, was made up of people who know Christian and their plus-ones. This made for an interesting mix of people, broken out approximately as such:

55% obvious nerds

40% obvious hipsters (Seriously. Skinny jeans? Still?)

5% indistinguishable/me and Emily

All in all I am really happy to have won tickets to see this movie. I am a little rueful that I was unable to share the devirginization of this rebirth with my best friend and collaborator Donavon. However, I believe it was worth potential perceptions of betrayal to see one of the best, most exciting films I've seen in years.

People Watching Backstory

I was sitting in Urban Bean this afternoon doing some work. I was unable to listen to music, because, like always, I had forgotten my one pair of headphones at work. This always makes for some great people watching.

Normally, the people watching gets up to a moderate level of interesting: I've seen cartoonists, graphic designers, study partners, couples fighting, and any number of lone laptop hunchers. I can generally figure out what's going on, more or less, and it generally seems pretty benign.

Today, however, I saw two people I couldn't quite figure out.

A man, maybe in his early or mid twenties, was sitting next to a woman somewhere between twice and three times his age. He was a husky build: not fat, exactly, but not lean. Even in his chair he seemed tall. His hair was cut short but was obviously thick. He was loud.

She was almost his exact opposite: She was meek in stature. She had fine, white hair in a pony tail. When she leaned over to speak to him I could not hear her--her mouth barely even opened.

They both pecked and squinted at laptops; the man's looked about 5 years old, the woman's looked about 10 years old. He shouted into a phone, giving an awkwardly large ramble of information to the person on the other side before asking if they had any studio or one bedroom apartments available. He was asking for openings immediately, or, failing that, the first of May. "I just moved to town and I need something as soon as possible." He made many of these calls, each time asking for the same standard information from people who want to sell it to him; yet, he remained uneasy and spoke quickly, tripping over his words at times.

They seemed to have only two qualifications: they need it cheap and they need it now.

Why don't they have a place to live? And where did them come from?

They don't have a place to live because they picked up and left where they were without a plan. The were in a hurry. Their only change of clothes was probably bought at Wal-Mart at 3am.

They are obviously lovers on the run. They came from Elsewhere--the town where her Old Man started asking too many questions. The man was almost insistent on giving his nonsuspiciously generic name before anything else: a little too eager to cement his new alias, perhaps.

Did they kill her Old Man? Or was he so scorned that he is after them with an ax? Whatever the reason, they fled to Minneapolis, a city small enough to be a less than obvious refuge, big enough to melt into the background.

And then he said "I'm going to MCTC this summer and my mom is going to cosign my lease."

A likely story.

Music for Warm Weather

I really enjoy the differences between seasons. And I don't just mean the temperatures, I mean things like the clothing, the food, the activities, and I really really enjoy the different music.

I don't mean Christmas music versus not Christmas music. I mean music you only listen to in the fall. Or music that really puts you in a summer mood.

I am getting really excited for my summer music.

On Art's Summer Playlist:

Upbeat songs by Beck
311's blue album and Grassroots
Dookie by Greenday
The good songs from the A Mighty Wind soundtrack (mostly anything by the Folksmen or the New Main Street Singers)
Lots and lots of The Offspring
My dozen or so favorite Cake songs
Who's Johnny by El DeBarge
Boys in the Hood by Dynamite Hack
Old Shit/New Shit by Eels
Sugar by System of a Down
Summer Time by Mungo Jerry
The Devil's Song by Marcy Playground
Bullet by Bob Schneider


And so on. These are my summer tunes, just itching to get out and play.

But for now, I am ringing in spring, as I do every year, with a little Tom Lehrer:

Star Tribune: Should Gomez Be Sent to the Minors?

Star Tribune reader Howard asks: Should Carlos Gomez be sent down to the minors for a while? That would give him time to get his head straight, which, according to Howard, is needed:

Gomez has one single in his last 19 at-bats and a .103 batting average. He looks lost and dispirited and there’s no way (other than the “give him time, he’ll snap out of it” speech) that playing Gomez regularly came be justified right now.

You know what? No. Because if we take Gomez off the roster and send him to the minors, what am I going to do with this?

The Kind of Spontaneous Publicity That Makes People

I am forever enshrined in Google's Street View feature:





Things are going to start happening to me now!

Ode and Plea to Cat

Dear Cat,

Cat, I love you. I truly adore you. How could I not? You writhe and jump about in bids for affection without equal. You gently prod with face and limb--not for food, but for affection. How could you not be loved? You bathe me, and at times I let you, because I know it comes from the love center of your brain the size of a walnut.

For years, I counted among your most adorable and lovable habits your interest in cellophane. If it was crinkly and clear, it was in your paws. It was killed as if it were a mouse. You would parade around your meager living space, head held high, mewing your triumph through your clinched, plastic-clutching jaw.

But, recently, you have taken on a new, not so adorable, not so lovable habit. Your infatuation with plastic has, shall we say, matured. Like a girl with boys, you have graduated from wanting to experience your object of desire purely with mouth and hands to wanting it inside you. And as your father (of sorts), I entirely disapprove.

This is not because I do not want you to be happy. I was brought no small amount of joy when it was simply a proud strutting and shouting, plastic in mouth. But your new level of interest has become a problem.

For you see, Cat, when you eat plastic, you do not digest it. You swallow large sections of wrapper and they are rejected by your digestive system. They are not, then, deposited in the designated plastic pan, but on my floor, among other stomach contents, which, as a mere animal layman, I am only able to identify as "nasty stuff."

Dear Cat, I implore you: stop ingesting prophylactic wrappers. Stop eating the wrappers of DVDs and other things in wrappers. If I could take you to an obedience school to teach you that the trash can is not a place to fish for toys, I would. Alas, your brain is large enough to lovingly bathe me, but it's not large enough for much else. So, dear Cat, I will write you a letter on the Internet, in the (futile) hope that you will stop eating the plastic from my garbage and throwing it up on my floor.

A Terrible Time

Dear 5:40,

Why must you taunt me?

If you were 5:20, I could take a nap. If you were 6:00 I could be on my way to a fun, social evening filled with Chinese food, bar trivia, and beer. But no, you must place me frustratingly in the middle: nap-desirous, but time deficient.

And that's how blogs are born.

Sincerely,

Sleepy on the Internet

The Greatest Man Movie Concept

I have come up with the best idea for a total guy movie. It's got everything a man needs in a movie: a monster and nudity. Here's the premise:

A woman is infested with a parasite. After the paratite bursts out of the woman, nearly splitting her in two, she finds out that it has brainwashed her into feeding it and keeping it alive! And it will only eat... FROM HER BOOBS!

Step 1: Puns. Step 3: Riches

My friend Zach recently brought to my attention a post from the top-notch economic thinkers at NPR's Planet Money blog. They shared with us a drawing, by a kid, inspired by the prompt, "I'm going to be a millionaire because..." The kid drew this:

Yes, that is a picture of an adult male deer with a cutaway of his midsection to reveal some dollars inside him. The conclusion the Planet Money people drew (heh heh) from this picture was:

...puns are the surest route to riches.

Ten Best Comedy Movies

In the spirit of putting one more list on the internet, I figured I'd share with you a list of the top ten comedy movies.

This is a list that has been rolling around in my mind, maybe for years. At least, four or five items on the list have struck me as so good that I need to put them into a list to quantify just how good they are.

BUT, I'm a scientist, so I couldn't just dive in and make my list. I had to do research. I found three different top ten lists from three very different rating bodies:

AFI:
10. AIRPLANE!.
9. THE GRADUATE.
8. IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT.
7. M*A*S*H.
6. BLAZING SADDLES.
5. DUCK SOUP.
4. ANNIE HALL.
3. DR. STRANGELOVE OR: HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE THE BOMB.
2. TOOTSIE.
1. SOME LIKE IT HOT.

Bravo:
10 Arthur
9 Ace Ventura: Pet Detective
8 Blazing Saddles
7 The Wedding Singer
6 Airplane [sic]
5 South Park: Bigger, Longer, Uncut
4 There’s Something About Mary
3 Shrek
2 Caddyshack
1 Animal House

IGN:
10. Blues Brothers
9. Raising Arizona
8. Rushmore
7. Monty Python and the Holy Grail
6. Blazing Saddles
5. Doctor Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
4. This Is Spinal Tap
3. Caddyshack
2. The Big Lebowski
1. Ghostbusters

There are some interesting trends here. For example, all the lists include Blazing Saddles, but none of them include it in the top five. IGN and AFI both have at number six, while Bravo has it at eight. (Behind Wedding Singer. Really?) This seems like an obvious pan-list item, until you realize Dr. Strangelove, Airplane!, and Caddyshack only made two lists, and This Is Spinal Tap only made one.

This evidence supports my thesis, outlined below, with the question of Caddyshack left open for debate.

And now, I present to you, my list:

10. Airplane!
9. Wayne’s World
8. Doctor Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
7. Mystery Men
6. Rushmore
5. Monty Python's Meaning of Life
4. The Big Lebowski
3. Blues Brothers
2. This Is Spinal Tap
1. Blazing Saddles



Post Script: Honorable Mentions

Then, there are some movies that aren't exactly in the main stream. I would hesitate to even call them "movies," per se. Two are commentaries and one is a documentary. But these easily rank as highly as the Top Ten, but they rank differently high. Consider these three as the top three (in no particular order) of a parallel list of feature-length hilarity.

Wizard People, Dear Reader [link]

MST3K/RiffTrax [link]

The Aristocrats [link]